UC-NRI 


DSS 


PROSE   WORKS 


OF 


HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW. 


I 

s 

I 

x 


COMPLETE    IN    TWO    VOLUMES. 
VOLUME  I. 


Library. 

California- 


BOSTON: 

TAMES  R.  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY, 

LATE  TICKNOR  &  FIELDS,  AND  FIELDS,  OSGOOD,  &  CO- 

1873. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1867,  bj 

ILEXHY  W.  LONGFELLOW, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of 
Massachusetts. 


UNIVERSITY   PRESS: 

WELCH,    BIGELOW,   AND  COMPANY, 

CAMBRIDGE. 


CONTENTS. 


VOLUME    I. 

OUTRE-MER;    A  PILGRIMAGE  BEYOND  THE  SEA. 

1'uge 

The  Epistle  Dedicatory 9 

The  Pilgrim  of  Outre-Mer 11 

FRANCE. 

The  Norman  Diligence 17 

The  Golden  Lion  Inn 24 

Martin  Franc  and  the  Monk  of  Saint  Anthony. ...  29 

The  Village  of  Auteuil 46 

Jacqueline 57 

The  Sexagenarian 65 

Pere  La  Chaise 71 

The  Valley  of  the  Loire 83 

The  Trouveres 96 

The  Baptism  of  Fire 110 

Coq-k-1'  Ane 119 

The  Notary  of  Pdrigueux 129 

SPAIN. 

The  Journey  into  Spain 143 

Spain 153 

A  Tailor's  Drawer 162 

Ancient  Spanish  Ballads  , 173 


Vi  CONfEXTS. 

The  Village  of  El  Pardillo 195 

The  Devotional  Poetry  of  Spain 209 

The  Pilgrim's  Breviary 234 

ITALY. 

The  Journey  into  Italy 261 

Rome  in  Midsummer 273 

The  Village  of  La  Riccia, 292 

NOTE-BOOK. 

Note-book 309 

The  Pilgrim's  Salutation 316 

Colophon 818 


DRIFT  WOOD,  A  COLLECTION  OP  ESSAYS. 

Frithiof's  Saga 821 

Hawthorne's  Twice-told  Tales 372 

The  Great  Metropolis 879 

Anglo-Saxon  Literature 884 

Paris  in  the  Seventeenth  Century 412 

Dante 419 

The  Divina  Commedia 434 

Table-Talk.*'. 450 


OUTRE-MER, 


PILGRIMAGE    BEYOND    THE    SEA. 


I  have  passed  manye  landes  and  manye  yles  and  contrees,  and 
rherched  manye  fulle  straunge  places,  and  have  ben  in  manye  a 
fulle  gode  honourable  companye.  Now  I  am  comen  home  to 
reste.  And  thus  recordynge  the  tyme  passed,  I  have  fulfilled  these 
thynges  and  putte  hem  wryten  in  this  boke,  as  it  woulde  come 
into  my  mynde. — Sir  John  Maundeville. 


THE 

EPISTLE    DEDICATOKY. 

The  cheerful  breeze  seta  fair;  we  fill  our  sail. 
And  scud  before  it.    When  the  critic  starts, 
And  angrily  unties  his  bags  of  wind, 
Then  we  lay  to,  and  let  the  blast  go  by. 

HUBDIS 

WORTHY  AND  GENTLE  READER, 

I  dedicate  this  little  book  to  thee  with  many 
fears  and  misgivings  of  heart.  Being  a  stranger 
to  thee,  and  having  never  administered  to  thy 
wants  nor  to  thy  pleasures,  I  can  ask  nothing  at 
thy  hands,  saving  the  common  courtesies  of  life. 
Perchance,  too,  what  I  have  written,  will  be  little 
to  thy  taste ; — for  it  is  little  in  accordance  with  the 
stirring  spirit  of  the  present  age.  If  so,  I  crave 
thy  forbearance  for  having  thought  that  even  the 
busiest  mind  might  not  be  a  stranger  to  those 
moments  of  repose,  when  the  clock  of  time  clicks 
drowsily  behind  the  door,  and  trifles  become  the 
amusement  of  the  wise  and  great 

Besides,    what    perils    await   the    adventurous 


10  THE   EPISTLE   DEDICATORY. 

author  who  launches  forth  into  the  uncertain  cur 
rent  of  public  favor  in  so  frail  a  bark  as  this ! 
The  very  rocking  of  the  tide  may  overset  him  ;  or, 
peradventure,  some  freebooting  critic,  prowling 
about  the  great  ocean  of  letters,  may  descry  his 
strange  colors,  hail  him  through  a  gray  goose-quill, 
and  perhaps  sink  him  without  moro  ado.  Indeed, 
the  success  of  an  unknown  author  is  as  uncertain 
as  the  wind.  "  When  a  book  is  first  to  appear  in 
the  world,"  says  a  celebrated  French  writer,  "  one 
knows  not  whom  to  consult  to  learn  its  destiny. 
The  stars  preside  not  over  its  nativity.  Their 
influences  have  no  operation  on  it ;  and  the  most 
confident  astrologers  dare  not  foretell  the  diverse 
risks  of  fortune  it  must  run." 

It  is  from  such  considerations,  worthy  reader, 
that  I  would  fain  bespeak  thy  friendly  offices  at 
the  outset  But  in  asking  these,  I  would  not 
forestall  thy  good  opinion  too  far,  lest  in  the  sequel 
I  should  disappoint  thy  kind  wishes.  I  ask  only  a 
welcome  and  God-speed ;  hoping,  that,  when  thou 
hast  read  these  pages,  thou  wilt  say  to  me,  in  the 
words  of  Nick  Bottom,  the  weaver,  "  I  shall  desire 
you  of  more  acquaintance,  good  Master  Cobweb." 
Very  sincerely  thine, 

THE  AUTHOR. 

Brunswick,  Maine,  1833. 


THE 


PILGRIM  OF   OUTRE-MER. 


I  am  a  Palmer,  as  ye  se, 

Whiche  of  my  lyfs  muche  part  have  spent 

In  many  a  fayre  and  farre  cuntrie, 

As  pilgrims  do  of  good  intent. 

THE  FOUR  Ps. 


"LYSTENYTH,  ye  godely  gentylmen,  and  all 
that  ben  hereyn  1 "  I  am  a  pilgrim  benighted  on 
my  way,  and  crave  a  shelter  till  the  storm  is  over, 
and  a  seat  by  the  fireside  in  this  honorable  com 
pany.  As  a  stranger  I  claim  this  courtesy  at  your 
hands ;  and  will  repay  your  hospitable  welcome 
with  tales  of  the  countries  I  have  passed  through 
in  my  pilgrimage. 

This  is  a  custom  of  the  olden  time.  In  the 
days  of  chivalry  and  romance,  every  baron  bold, 
perched  aloof  in  his  feudal  castle,  welcomed  the 
stranger  to  his  halls,  and  listened  with  delight  to  the 
pilgrim's  tale  and  the  song  of  the  troubadour.  Both 
pilgrim  and  troubadour  had  their  tales  of  wonder 


12  THE  PILGRIM    OF    OUTRE-MER. 

from  a  distant  land,  embellished  -with  the  magic 
of  Oriental  exaggeration.     Their  salutation  was, 

"  Lordyng  lystnith  to  my  tale, 

That  is  meryer  than  the  nightingale." 

The  soft  luxuriance  of  the  Eastern  clime  bloomed 
in  the  song  of  the  bard ;  and  the  wild  and  romantic 
tales  of  regions  so  far  off  as  to  be  regarded  as 
almost  a  fairy  land,  were  well  suited  to  the  childish 
credulity  of  an  age  when  what  is  now  called  the 
Old  World  was  in  its  childhood.  Those  times 
have  passed  away.  The  world  has  grown  wiser 
and  less  credulous ;  and  the  tales  which  then 
delighted  delight  no  longer.  But  man  has  not 
changed  his  nature.  He  still  retains  the  same 
curiosity,  the  same  love  of  novelty,  the  same  fond 
ness  for  romance  and  tales  by  the  chimney-corner, 
and  the  same  desire  of  wearing  out  the  rainy  day 
and  the  long  winter  evening  with  the  illusions  ot 
fancy  and  the  fairy  sketches  of  the  poet's  imagina 
tion.  It  is  as  true  now  as  ever,  that 

"  Off  taly?,  and  tryfulles,  many  man  tellys ; 
Sume  byn  trew,  and  sume  byu  ellis ; 
A  man  may  dryfe  forthe  the  day  that  long  tyme  dwelli* 
Wyth  harpyng,  and  pipyng,  and  other  mery  spellis, 
Wyth  gle,  and  wyth  game." 

The  Pays  d'Outre-Mer,  or  the  Land  beyond  the 
Sea,  is  a  name  by  which  the  pilgrims  and  crusaders 
of  old  usually  designated  the  Holy  Land.  I,  too, 
in  i\  certain  sense,  have  been  a  pilgrim  of  Outro- 


THE   PILGRIM   OF    OUTRE-MER.  13 

Mer;  for  to  ray  youthful  imagination  the  Old 
World  was  a  kind  of  Holy  Land,  lying  afar  off 
beyond  the  blue  horizon  of  the  ocean ;  and  when 
its  shores  first  rose  upon  my  sight,  looming  through 
the  hazy  atmosphere  of  the  sea,  my  heart  swelled 
with  the  deep  emotions  of  the  pilgrim,  when  he 
sees  afar  the  spire  which  rises  above  the  shrine 
of  his  devotion. 

In  this  my  pilgrimage,  "  I  have  passed  many 
lands  and  countries,  and  searched  many  full 
strange  places."  I  have  traversed  France  from 
Normandy  to  Navarre^  smoked  my  pipe  in  a 
Flemish  inn  ;  floated  through  Holland  in  a  Trek- 
schuit;  trimmed  my  midnight  lamp  in  a  German 
university ;  wandered  and  mused  amid  the  classie 
scenes  of  Italy ;  and  listened  to  the  gay  guitar 
and  merry  Castanet  on  the  borders  of  the  blue 
Guadalquivir.  The  recollection  of  many  of  the 
scenes  I  have  passed  through  is  still  fresh  in  my 
mind ;  while  the  memory  of  others  is  fast  fading 
away,  or  is  blotted  out  forever.  But  now  I  will  stay 
the  too  busy  hand  of  time,  and  call  back  the  shadowy 
past.  Perchance  the  old  and  the  wise  may  accuse 
me  of  frivolity  ;  but  I  see  in  this  fair  company  the 
bright  eye  and  listening  ear  of  youth, — an  age  less 
rigid  in  its  censure  and  more  willing  to  be  pleased. 
"  To  gentlewomen  and  their  loves  is  consecrated 
all  the  wooing  language,  allusions  to  love-passions, 
and  sweet  embracements  feigned  by  the  Muse 
'mongst  hills  and  rivers;  whatsoever  tastes  of 
description,  battel,  story,  abstruse  antiquity,  and 


14  THE  PILGKIM   OF    OUTRE-MER. 

law  of  the  kingdome,  to  die  more  severe  critic. 
To  the  one  be  contenting  enjoyments  of  their 
auspicious  desires ;  to  the  other,  a  happy  attend 
ance  of  their  chosen  Muses."  * 

And  now,  fair  dames  and  courteous  gentlemen, 
give  me  attentive  audience : — 

"  Lordyng  lystnith  to  my  tale, 

That  is  meryer  tlian  the  nightingale." 

•  Selden  s  Prefatory  Discourse  to  the  Notes  in  Drayton  a  Poly 
Olbiou. 


FRANCE. 


THE 


NORMAN    DILIGENCE. 


The  French  guides,  otherwise  called  the  postllians,  have  ons 
most  diabolicaU  custome  in  their  travelling  upon  the  wayes. 
Diabolieall  it  may  be  well  called;  for,  whensoever  their  horses 
doe  a  little  anger  them,  they  will  say,  in  their  fury,  Allans, 
diable,— that  is  Go,  thou  divel.  This  I  know  by  mine  own 
experience.  CORYAT'S  CRUDITEES. 


IT  was  early  in  the  "  leafy  month  of  June  "  that 
I  travelled  through  the  beautiful  province  of  Nor 
mandy.     As  France  was  the  first  foreign  country  I 
visited,  every  thing  wore  an  air  of  freshness  and 
novelty,  which  pleased  my  eye,  and  kept  my  fancy 
constantly  busy.     Life  was  like  a  dream.     It  was  a 
luxury  to  breathe  again  the  free  air,  after  having       ^     jj 
been  so  long  cooped  up  at  sea ;  and,  like  a  long-  \ 
imprisoned  bird  let  loose  from  its  cage,  I  revelled  ; 
in   the  freshness   and  sunshine    of   the   morning  \ 
landscape. 

'  On  every  side,  valley  and  hill  were  covered 
with  a  carpet  of  soft  velvet  green.  The  birds 
were  singing  merrily  in  the  trees,  and  the  land 
scape  wore  that  look  of  gayety  so  well  described  in 

VOL.  i.  2 


18  THE  NORMAN   DILIGENCE. 

the  quaint  language  of  an  old  romance,  making  the 
"sad,  pensive,  and  aching  heart  to  rejoice,  and  to 
throw  off  mourning  and  sadness."  Here  and  there 
a  cluster  of  chestnut- trees  shaded  a  thatch-roofed 
cottage,  and  little  patches  of  vineyard  were  scat 
tered  on  the  slope  of  the  hills,  mingling  their  deli 
cate  green  with  the  deep  hues  of  the  early  summer 
grain.  The  whole  landscape  had  a  fresh,  breezy 
look.  It  was  not  hedged  in  from  the  highways,  but 
lay  open  to  the  eye  of  the  traveller,  and  seemed  to 
welcome  him  with  open  arms.  I  felt  less  a  stranger 
in  the  land  ;  and  as  my  eye  traced  the  dusty  road 
winding  along  through  a  rich  cultivated  country, 
skirted  on  either  side  with  blossoming  fruit-trees, 
and  occasionally  caught  glimpses  of  a  little  farm 
house  resting  in  a  green  hollow  and  lapped  in  the 
bosom  of  plenty,  I  felt  that  I  was  in  a  prosperous, 
hospitable,  and  happy  land* 

I  had  taken  my  seat  on  top  of  the  diligence,  in 
order  to  have  a  better  view  of  the  country.  It  was 
one  of  those  ponderous  vehicles  which  totter  slow 
ly  along  the  paved  roads  of  France,  laboring  be 
neath  a  mountain  of  trunks  and  bales  of  all  de 
scriptions;  ^  and,  like  the  Trojan  horse,  bearing  a 
groaning  multitude  within  it  It  was  a  curious  and 
cumbersome  machine,  resembling  the  bodies  of 
three  coaches  placed  upon  one  carriage,  with  a 
cabriolet  on  top  for  outside  passengers.  On  the 
panels  of  each  door  were  painted  the  fleurs-de-lis  of 
France,  and  upon  the  side  of  the  coach  emblazoned, 
in  golden  characters,  "  Exploitation  Generate  de» 


THH  NORMAN   DILIGENCE,  19 

olessageries  Royales  des  Diligences  pour  le  Havre, 
Rouen,  et  Paris." 

It  would  be  useless  to  describe  the  motley  groups 
that  filled  the  four  quarters  of  this  little  world. 
There  was  the  dusty  tradesman,  with  green  coat 
and  cotton  umbrella  ;  the  sallow  invalid,  in  skull 
cap  and  cloth  shoes ;  the  priest  in  his  cassock  ;  the 
peasant  in  his  frock ;  and  a  whole  family  of  squall 
ing  children*  My  fellow-travellers  on  top  were  a 
gay  subaltern,  with  fierce  mustache,  and  a  nut- 
brown  village  beauty  of  sweet  sixteen.  The 
subaltern  wore  a  military  undress,  and  a  little  blue 
cloth  cap,  in  the  shape  of  a  cow-bell,  trimmed 
smartly  with  silver  lace,  and  cocked  on  one  side  of 
his  head.  The  brunette  was  decked  out  with  a 
staid  white  Norman  cap,  nicely  starched  and 
plaited,  and  nearly  three  feet  high,  a  rosary  and 
cross  about  her  neck,  a  linsey-woolsey  gown,  and 
wooden  shoes. 

The  personage  who  seemed  to  rule  this  little 
world  with  absolute  sway  was  a  short,  pursy  man, 
with  a  busy,  self-satisfied  air,  and  the  sonorous  tide 
of  Monsieur  le  Conducteur.  As  insignia  of  office, 
he  wore  a  little  round  fur  cap  and  fur-trimmed 
jacket ;  and  carried  in  his  hand  a  small  leathern 
portfolio,  containing  his  way-bill.  He  sat  with  us 
on  top  of  the  diligence,  and  with  comic  gravity 
issued  his  mandates  to  the  postilion  below,  like 
some  petty  monarch  speaking  from  his  throne.  In 
every  dingy  village  we  thundered  through,  he  had 
»  thousand  commissions  to  execute  and  to  receive } 


20  THE   yORMAX   DILIGENCE. 

a  package  to  throw  out  on  this  side,  and  another  to 
take  in  on  that ;  a  whisper  for  the  landlady  at  the 
inn ;  a  love-letter  and  a  kiss  for  her  daughter ;  and 
a  wink  or  a  snap  of  his  fingers  for  the  chamber 
maid  at  the  window.  Then  there  were  so  many 
questions  to  be  asked  and  answered,  while  changing 
horses  !  Every  body  had  a  word  to  say.  It  was 
Monsieur  le  Conducteur  !  here ;  Monsieur  le  Con- 
ducleur !  there.  He  was  in  complete  bustle ;  till 
at  length  crying,  En  route!  he  ascended  the 
dizzy  height,  and  we  lumbered  away  in  a  cloud 
of  dust 

But  what  most  attracted  my  attention  was  the 
grotesque  appearance  of  the  postilion  and  tho 
horses.  He  was  a  comical-looking  little  fellow, 
already  past  the  heyday  of  life,  with  a  thin,  sharp 
countenance,  to  which  the  smoke  of  tobacco  and 
the  fumes  of  wine  had  given  the  dusty  look  of 
parcliment.  He  was  equipped  in  a  short  jacket 
of  purple  velvet,  set  off  with  a  red  collar,  and 
adorned  with  silken  cord.  Tight  breeches  of 
bright  yellow  leather  arrayed  his  pipe-stem  legs, 
which  were  swallowed  up  in  a  huge  pair  of  wooden 
boots,  iron-fastened,  and  armed  with  long,  rattling 
spurs.  His  shirt-collar  was  of  vast  dimensions,  and 
between  it  and  the  broad  brim  of  his  high,  bell- 
crowned,  varnished  hat  projected  an  eel-skin 
queue,  with  a  little  tuft  of  frizzled  hair,  like  a 
powder-puff,  at  the  end,  bobbing  up  and  down 
with  the  motion  of  the  rider,  and  scattering  a 
white  cloud  around  him. 


THE  NORMAN   DILIGENCE.  21 

The  horses  which  drew  the  diligence  were  liar- 
nessed  to  it  with  ropes  and  leather  thongs,  in  the 
most  uncouth  manner  imaginable.  They  were 
five  in  number ;  black,  white,  and  gray, — as  various 
in  size  as  in  color.  Their  tails  were  braided  and 
tied  up  with  wisps  of  straw ;  and  when  the  postilion 
mounted  and  cracked  his  heavy  whip,  off  they 
started ;  one  pulling  this  way,  another  that, — one 
on  the  gallop,  another  trotting,  and  the  rest  drag 
ging  along  at  a  scrambling  pace,  between  a  trot 
and  a  walk.  No  sooner  did  the  vehicle  get  com 
fortably  in  motion,  than  the  postilion,  throwing  the 
reins  upon  his  horse's  neck,  and  drawing  a  flint 
and  steel  from  one  pocket  and  a  short-stemmed 
pipe  from  another,  leisurely  struck  fire,  and  began 
to  smoke.  Ever  and  anon  some  part  of  the  rope- 
harness  would  give  way ;  Monsieur  le  Conducteur 
from  on  high  would  thunder  forth  an  oath  or  two ; 
a  head  would  be  popped  out  at  every  window ; 
half  a  dozen  voices  exclaim  at  once,  "  What's  the 
matter?"  and  the  postilion,  apostrophizing  the 
diable  as  usual,  would  thrust  his  long  whip  into  the 
leg  of  his  boot,  leisurely  dismount,  and,  drawing 
a  handful  of  packthread  from  his  pocket,  quietly 
get  himself  to  mend  matters  in  the  best  way  pas 
sible. 

In  this  manner  we  toiled  slowly  along  the 
dusty  highway.  Occasionally,  the  scene  was  en 
livened  by  a  group  of  peasants,  driving  before 
them  a  little  ass,  laden  with  vegetables  for  a 
neighbouring  market.  Then  we  would  pass  a 


22  THE   NORMAN   DILIGENCE. 

solitary  shepherd,  sitting  by  the  roadside,  with 
a  shaggy  dog  at  his  feet,  guarding  his  flock,  and 
making  his  scanty  meal  on  the  contents  of  his 
wallet ;  or  perchance  a  little  peasant-girl,  in 
wooden  shoes,  leading  a  cow  by  a  cord  attached 
to  her  horns,  to  browse  along  the  side  of  the 
ditch.  Then  we  would  all  alight  to  ascend 
some  formidable  hill  on  foot,  and  be  escorted  up 
by  a  clamorous  group  of  sturdy  mendicants, — 
annoyed  by  the  ceaseless  importunity  of  worth 
less  beggary,  or  moved  to  pity  by  the  palsied 
limbs  of  the  aged,  and  the  sightless  eyeballs  of 
the  blind. 

Occasionally,  too,  the  postilion  drew  up  in  front 
of  a  dingy  little  cabaret,  completely  overshadowed 
by  wide-spreading  trees.  A  lusty  grapevine  clam 
bered  up  beside  the  door;  and  a  pine-bough  was 
thrust  out  from  a  hole  in  the  wall,  by  way  of  tavern- 
bush.  Upon  the  front  of  the  house  was  generally 
inscribed  in  large  black  letters,  "  Ici  ON  DONNE  A 

BOIRE   ET   A   MANGER  J    ON    LOGE    A    PIED    ET  A 

CHEVAL  " ;  a  sign  which  may  be  thus  paraphrased, 
— "Good  entertainment  for  man  and  beast";  but 
which  was  once  translated  by  a  foreigner,  "  Here 
they  give  to  eat  and  drink ;  they  lodge  on  foot  and 
on  horseback  ! " 

Thus  one  object  of  curiosity  succeeded  another; 
hill,  valley,  stream,  and  woodland  flitted  by  me 
like  the  shifting  scenes  of  a  magic  lantern,  and  one 
train  of  thought  gave  place  to  another ;  till  at 
length,  in  the  after  part  of  the  day,  we  entered 


THE  NORMAN   DILIGENCE.  23 

the  broad  and  shady  avenue  of  fine  old  trees  which 
leads  to  the  western  gate  of  Rouen,  and  a  few 
moments  afterward  were  lost  in  the  crowds  and 
confusion  of  its  narrr  t 


GOLDEN    LION    INN. 


Monsintr  Vinot.  Jc  reux  absolument  an  Lion  d'Or:  pare* 
qu'on  dit,  Ou  allez-vous?  Au  Lion  d'Of! — D'ou  vencz-vous! 
Du  Lion  d'Or!— Ou  irons-nous?  Au  Lion  d'Or!— Ou  y  a-t-il  d« 
bon  Tin?  Au  Lion  d'Or!  LA.  ROSE  ROOQB. 


Tins  answer  of  Monsieur  YInot  must  have  been 
running  in  my  head  as  the  diligence  stopped  at  the 
Messagerie ;  for  when  the  porter,  who  took  my 
luggage,  said : — 

"  Oil  allez-vous,  Monsieur  f" 

I  answered,  without  reflection  (for,  be  it  said 
with  all  the  veracity  of  a  traveller,  at  that  time  I 
did  not  know  there  was  a  Golden  Lion  in  the 
city),— 

"  Au  Lion  (FOr? 

And  so  to  the  Lion  d'Or  we  went 

The  hostess  of  the  Golden  Lion  received  me 
with  a  courtesy  and  a  smile,  rang  the  house-bell 
for  a  servant,  and  told  him  to  take  the  gentleman's 
things  to  number  thirty-five.  I  followed  him  up 
stairs.  One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven ! 
Seven  stories  high,  by  Our  Lady ! — I  counted  them 


THE   GOLDEN   LION  INN.  25 

every  one ;  and  when  I  went  down  to  remonstrate, 
I  courrted  them  again ;  so  that  there  was  no  possi 
bility  of  a  mistake.  When  I  asked  for  a  lower 
room,  the  hostess  told  me  the  house  was  full ;  and 
when  I  spoke  of  going  to  another  hotel,  she  said 
she  should  be  so  very  sorry,  so  dexolee,  to  have 
Monsieur  leave  her,  that  I  marched  up  again  to 
number  thirty-five. 

After  finding  all  the  fault  I  could  with  the  cham 
ber,  I  ended,  as  is  generally  the  case  with  most 
men  on  such  occasions,  by  being  very  well  pleased 
with  it.  The  only  thing  I  could  possibly  complain 
of  was  my  being  lodged  in  the  seventh  story,  and 
in  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  a  gentleman 
who  was  learning  to  play  the  French  horn.  But 
to  remunerate  me  for  these  disadvantages,  my 
window  looked  down  into  a  market-place,  and 
gave  me  a  distant  view  of  the  toAvers  of  the  cathe 
dral,  and  the  ruins  of  the  church  and  abbey  of 
St.  Ouen. 

When  I  had  fully  prepared  myself  for  a  ramble 
through  the  city,  it  was  already  sunset ;  and  after 
the  heat  and  dust  of  the  day,  the  freshness  of  the 
long  evening  twilight  was  delightful.  When  I 
enter  a  new  city,  I  cannot  rest  till  I  have  satisfied 
the  first  cravings  of  curiosity  by  rambling  through 
its  streets.  Nor  can  I  endure  a  cicerone,  with  his 
eternal  "  This  way,  Sir."  I  never  desire  to  be 
led  directly  to  an  object  worthy  of  a  traveller's 
notice,  but  prefer  a  thousand  times  to  find  my  own 
<vay,  and  come  upon  it  by  surprise.  This  was 


26  THE   GOLDEN  LION  INN. 

particularly  the  case  at  Rouen.  It  was  the  first 
European  city  of  importance  that  I  visited.  There 
was  an  air  of  antiquity  about  the  whole  city  that 
breathed  of  the  Middle  Ages ;  and  so  strong  and 
delightful  was  the  impression  that  it  made  upon 
my  youthful  imagination,  that  nothing  which  I 
afterward  saw  could  either  equal  or  efface  it  I 
have  since  passed  through  that  city,  but  I  did  not 
stop.  I  was  unwilling  to  destroy  an  impression 
which,  even  at  this  distant  day,  is  as  fresh  upon 
my  mind  as  if  it  were  of  yesterday. 

"With  these  delightful  feelings  I  rambled  on  from 
street  to  street,  till  at  length,  after  threading  a  nar 
row  alley,  I  unexpectedly  came  out  in  front  of  the 
magnificent  cathedral.  If  it  had  suddenly  risen 
from  the  earth,  the  effect  could  not  have  been  more 
powerful  and  instantaneous.  It  completely  over 
whelmed  my  imagination ;  and  I  stood  for  a  long 
time  motionless,  gazing  entranced  upon  the  stu 
pendous  edifice.  I  had  before  seen  no  specimen 
of  Gothic  architecture,  save  the  remains  of  a  little 
church  at  Havre,  and  the  massive  towers  before 
me,  the  lofty  windows  of  stained  glass,  the  low 
portal,  with  its  receding  arches  and  rude  statues, 
all  produced  upon  my  untravelled  mind  an  im 
pression  of  awful  sublimity.  When  I  entered  the 
church,  the  impression  was  still  more  deep  and 
solemn.  It  was  the  hour  of  vespers.  The  religious 
twilight  of  tho  place,  the  lamps  that  burned  on  the 
distant  altar,  the  kneeling  crowd,  the  tinkling  bell, 
and  the  chant  of  the  evening  service  that  rolled 


THE   GOLDEN   LION   INN.  27 

along  the  vaulted  roof  in  broken  and  repeated 
echoes,  filled  me  with  new  and  intense  emotions. 
When  I  gazed  on  the  stupendous  architecture  of 
the  church,  the  huge  columns  that  the  eye  followed 
up  till  they  were  lost  in  the  gathering  dusk  of  the 
arches  above,  the  long  and  shadowy  aisles,  the 
statues  of  saints  and  martyrs  that  stood  in  every 
recess,  the  figures  of  armed  knights  upon  the  tombs, 
the  uncertain  light  that  stole  through  the  painted 
windows  of  each  little  chapel,  and  the  form  of  the 
cowled  and  solitary  monk,  kneeling  at  the  shrine 
of  his  favorite  saint,  or  passing  between  the  lofty 
columns  of  the  church, — all  I  had  read  of,  but  had 
not  seen, — I  was  transported  back  to  the  Dark 
Ages,  and  felt  as  I  can  never  feel  again. 

On  the  following  day,  I  visited  the  remains  of  an 
old  palace,  built  by  Edward  the  Third,  now  occu 
pied  as  the  Palais  de  Justice,  and  the  ruins  of  the 
church  and  monastery  of  Saint  Antoine.  I  saw 
the  hole  in  the  tower  where  the  ponderous  bell  of 
the  abbey  fell  through;  and  took  a  peep  at  the 
curious  illuminated  manuscript  of  Daniel  d'Aubonne 
in  the  public  library.  The  remainder  of  the  morn 
ing  was  spent  in  visiting  the  ruins  of  the  ancient 
abbey  of  St.  Ouen,  which  is  now  transformed  into 
the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  in  strolling  through  its 
beautiful  gardens,  dreaming  of  the  present  and  the 
past,  and  given  up  to  "  a  melancholy  of  my  own." 

At  the  Table  d'Hote  of  the  Golden  Lion,  I  fell 
into  conversation  with  an  elderly  gentleman,  who 
proved  to  be  a  great  antiquarian,  and  thoroughly 


28  THE   GOLDEN   LION   INN. 

read  in  all  the  forgotten  lore  of  the  city.  As  our 
tastes  were  somewhat  similar,  we  were  soon  upon 
very  friendly  terms ;  and  after  dinner  we  strolled 
out  to  visit  some  remarkable  localities,  and  took  the 
gloria  together  in  the  Chevalier  Bayard. 

When  we  returned  to  the  Golden  Lion,  he  enter 
tained  me  with  many  curious  stories  of  the  spots 
we  had  been  visiting.  Among  others,  he  related 
the  following  singular  adventure  of  a  monk  of  the 
abbey  of  St.  Antoine,  which  amused  me  so  much 
that  I  cannot  refrain  from  presenting  it  to  my 
readers.  I  will  not,  however,  vouch  for  the  truth 
of  the  story ;  for  that  the  antiquarian  himself  would 
not  do.  He  said  he  found  it  in  an  ancient  manu 
script  of  the  Middle  Ages,  in  the  archives  of  the 
public  library ;  and  I  give  it  as  it  was  told  me,  with 
out  note  or  comment 


MARTIN    FRANC 

AND 

THE  MONK  OF  SAINT  ANTHONY.* 


Seignor,  oiez  unc  merveille, 
C'onques  n'oi'stes  sa  pareille, 
Que  je  vos  vueil  dire  et  conter; 
Or  metez  cuer  a  Tescouter. 

FABLIAU  DU  BOUCHIER  D'ABBEVILL*. 

Lystyn  Lordyngs  to  my  tale, 

And  ye  shall  here  of  one  story, 
Is  better  than  any  wyne  or  ale, 

That  ever  was  made  in  this  cuntry. 

ANCIENT  METRICAL  ROMANCE. 


IN  times  of  old,  there  lived  in  the  city  of  Rouen 
a  tradesman  named  Martin  Franc,  who,  by  a  series 
of  misfortunes,  had  been  reduced  from  opulence  to 
poverty.  But  poverty,  which  generally  makes  men 

*  The  outlines  of  the  following  tale  were  taken  from  a  Norman 
Fabliau  of  the  thirteenth  century,  entitled  Le  Segretain  Maine. 
To  judge  by  the  numerous  imitations  of  this  story  which  still 
exist  in  old  Norman  poetry,  it  seems  to  have  been  a  prodigious 
favorite  of  its  day,  and  to  have  passed  through  as  many  hands  as 
did  the  body  of  Friar  Gui.  It  probably  had  its  origin  in  "  The 
Story  of  the  Little  Hunchback,"  a  tale  of  the  Arabian  Nights; 
and  in  modern  times  has  been  imitated  in  the  poetic  tale  of 
"The  Kuight  and  the  Friar,"  by  George  Cclman. 


80  MARTIN   FRANC   AND 

humble  and  laborious,  only  served  to  make  him 
proud  and  lazy;  and  in  proportion  as  he  grew 
poorer  and  poorer,  he  grew  also  prouder  and 
lazier.  He  contrived,  however,  to  live  along  from 
day  to  day,  by  now  and  then  pawning  a  silken  robe 
of  his  wife,  or  selling  a  silver  spoon,  or  some  other 
trifle  saved  from  the  wreck  of  his  better  fortunes ; 
And  passed  his  time  pleasantly  enough  in  loitering 
about  the  market-place,  and  walking  up  and  down 
on  the  sunny  side  of  the  street 

The  fair  Marguerite,  his  wife,  was  celebrated 
through  the  whole  city  for  her  beauty,  her  wit,  and 
her  virtue.  She  was  a  brunette,  with  the  blackest 
eye,  the  whitest  teeth,  and  the  ripest  nut-brown 
cheek  in  all  Normandy ;  her  figure  was  tall  and 
stately,  her  hands  and  feet  most  delicately  moulded, 
and  her  swimming  gait  like  the  motion  of  a  swan. 
In  happier  days  she  had  been  the  delight  of  the 
richest  tradesmen  in  the  city,  and  the  envy  of  the 
fairest  dames. 

The  friends  of  Martin  Franc,  like  the  friends  of 
many  a  ruined  man  before  and  since,  deserted  him 
in  the  day  of  adversity.  Of  all  that  had  eaten  his 
dinners,  and  drunk  his  wine,  and  flattered  his  wife, 
none  sought  the  narrow  alley  and  humble  dwelling 
of  the  broken  tradesman  save  one,  and  that  one 
was  Friar  Gui,  the  sacristan  of  the  abbey  of  Saint 
Anthony.  He  was  a  little,  jolly,  red-faced  friar, 
with  a  leer  in  his  eye,  and  rather  a  doubtful  repu 
tation;  but  as  he  was  a  kind  of  travelling  gazette, 
and  always  brought  the  latest  news  and  gossip  of 


THE   MONK   OF   SAINT   ANTIIONY.  31 

the  city,  and  besides  was  the  only  person  that  con 
descended  to  visit  the  house  of  Martin  Franc, — in 
fine,  for  the  want  of  a  better,  he  was  considered  in 
the  light  of  a  friend. 

In  these  constant  assiduities,  Friar  Gui  had  his 
secret  motives,  of  which  the  single  heart  of  Martin 
Franc  was  entirely  unsuspicious.  The  keener  eye 
of  his  wife,  however,  soon  discovered  two  faces 
under  the  hood;  but  she  persevered  in  miscon 
struing  the  friar's  intentions,  and  in  dexterously 
turning  aside  any  expressions  of  gallantry  that  fell 
from  his  lips.  In  this  way  Friar  Gui  was  for  a  long 
time  kept  at  bay ;  and  Martin  Franc  preserved  in 
the  day  of  poverty  and  distress  that  consolation  of 
all  this  world's  afflictions, — a  friend.  But,  finally, 
things  came  to  such  a  pass,  that  the  honest  trades 
man  opened  his  eyes,  and  wondered  he  had  been 
asleep  so  long.  Whereupon  he  was  irreverent 
enough  to  thrust  Friar  Gui  into  the  street  by  the 
shoulders. 

Meanwhile  the  times  grew  worse  and  worse. 
One  family  relic  followed  another, — the  last  silken 
robe  was  pawned,  the  last  silver  spoon  sold ;  until 
at  length  poor  Martin  Franc  was  forced  to  "  drag 
the  devil  by  the  tail;"  in  other  words,  beggary 
Btared  him  full  in  the  face.  But  the  fair  Marguerite 
did  not  even  then  despair.  In  those  days  a  belief 
in  the  immediate  guardianship  of  the  saints  was 
much  more  strong  and  prevalent  than  in  these 
lewd  and  degenerate  times ;  and  as  there  seemed 
no  great  probability  of  improving  their  condition 


32  MARTIN  FRANC  AND 

by  any  lucky  change  which  could  be  brought  about 
by  mere  human  agency,  she  determined  to  try  what 
could  be  done  by  intercession  with  the  patron  saint 
of  her  husband.  Accordingly  she  repaired  one 
evening  to  the  abbey  of  St.  Anthony,  to  place  a 
votive  candle  and  offer  her  prayer  at  the  altar, 
which  stood  in  the  little  chapel  dedicated  to  St 
Martin. 

It  was  already  sunset  when  she  reached  the 
church,  and  the  evening  service  of  the  Virgin  had 
commenced.  A  cloud  of  incense  floated  before  the 
altar  of  the  Madonna,  and  the  organ  rolled  its 
deep  melody  along  the  dim  arches  of  the  church. 
Marguerite  mingled  with  the  kneeling  crowd,  and 
repeated  the  responses  in  Latin,  with  as  much  de 
votion  as  the  most  learned  clerk  of  the  convent. 
When  the  service  was  over,  she  repaired  to  the 
chapel  of  St.  Martin,  and  lighting  her  votive  taper 
at  the  silver  lamp  which  burned  before  his  altar, 
knelt  down  in  a  retired  part  of  the  chapel,  and, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  besought  the  saint  for  aid 
and  protection.  While  she  was  thus  engaged,  the 
church  became  gradually  deserted,  till  she  was  left, 
as  she  thought,  alone.  But  in  this  she  was  mis 
taken  ;  for,  when  she  arose  to  depart,  the  portly 
figure  of  Friar  Gui  was  standing  close  at  her  elbow ! 

"  Good  evening,  fair  Marguerite,"  said  he.  "  St. 
Martin  has  heard  your  prayer,  and  sent  me  to 
relieve  your  poverty." 

"  Then,  by  the  Virgin  ! "  replied  she,  "  the  good 
saint  is  not  very  fastidious  in  the  choice  of  his 
messengers." 


THE   MONK  OF   SAINT   ANTHONY.  33 

"  Nay,  goodwife,"  answered  the  friar,  not  at  all 
abashed  by  this  ungracious  reply,  "  if  the  tidings 
are  good,  what  matters  it  who  the  messenger  may 
be  ?  And  how  does  Martin  Franc  these  days  ?  " 

"  He  is  well,"  replied  Marguerite ;  "  and  were  he 
present,  I  doubt  not  would  thank  you  heartily  for 
the  interest  you  still  take  in  him  and  his  poor  wife." 

"  He  has  done  me  wrong,"  continued  the  friar. 
*'  But  it  is  our  duty  to  forgive  our  enemies ;  and  so 
let  the  past  be  forgotten.  I  know  that  he  is  in 
want.  Here,  take  this  to  him,  and  tell  him  I  am 
still  his  friend." 

So  saying,  he  drew  a  small  purse  from  the  sleeve 
of  his  habit,  and  proffered  it  to  his  companion.  I 
know  not  whether  it  were  a  suggestion  of  St.  Martin, 
but  true  it  is  that  the  fair  wife  of  Martin  Franc 
seemed  to  lend  a  more  willing  ear  to  the  earnest 
whispers  of  the  friar.  At  length  she  said, — 

"  Put  up  your  purse  ;  to-day  I  can  neither  de 
liver  your  gift  nor  your  message.  Martin  Franc 
has  gone  from  home." 

"  Then  keep  it  for  yourself." 

"Nay,  Sir  Monk,"  replied  Marguerite,  casting 
down  her  eyes ;  "  I  can  take  no  bribes  here  in  the 
church,  and  in  the  very  chapel  of  my  husband's 
patron  saint.  You  shall  bring  it  to  me  at  my  house, 
if  you  will." 

The  friar  put  up  the  purse,  and  the  conversation 
which  followed  was  in  a  low  and  indistinct  under 
tone,  audible  only  to  the  ears  for  which  it  was 
intended.  At  length  the  interview  ceased ;  and — 

VOL.  I.  3 


54  MARTIN   FRA^C    -iXD 

O  woman  ! — the  last  words  that  the  virtuous  Mar 
guerite  uttered,  as  she  glided  from  the  church, 
were, — 

"  To-night ;  —  when  the  abbey-clock  strikes 
twelve ; — remember  !  " 

It  would  be  useless  to  relate  how  impatiently  the 
friar  counted  the  hours  and  the  quarters  as  they 
chimed  from  the  ancient  tower  of  the  abbey,  while 
he  paced  to  and  fro  along  the  gloomy  cloister.  At 
length  the  appointed  hour  approached  ;  and  just 
before  the  convent-bell  sent  forth  its  summons  to 
call  the  friars  of  St.  Anthony  to  their  midnight 
devotions,  a  figure,  with  a  cowl,  stole  out  of  a  pos 
tern  gate,  and,  passing  silently  along  the  deserted 
streets,  soon  turned  into  the  little  alley  which  led 
to  the  dwelling  of  Martin  Franc.  It  was  none 
other  than  Friar  Gui.  He  rapped  r^ftly  at  the 
tradesman's  door,  and  casting  a  loo>  up  and  down 
the  street,  as  if  to  assure  himself  <rhat  his  motions 
were  unobserved,  slipped  into  the  house. 

"  Has  Martin  Franc  returned  ?  "  inquired  he  in 
a  whisper. 

"  No,"  answered  the  sweet  voice  of  his  wife ;  "  ho 
*ill  not  be  back  to-night." 

"  Then  all  good  angels  befriend  us  !  "  continued 
.he  monk,  endeavoring  to  take  her  hand. 

"Not  so,  good  Monk,"  said  she,  disengaging 
herself.  "  You  forget  the  conditions  of  our  meet 
ing." 

The  friar  paused  a  moment;  and  then,  drawing 
ft  heavy  leathern  purse  from  his  girdle,  he  threw  it 


THE   MONK   OF   SAINT   ANTHONY.  35 

npon  the  table  ;  at  the  same  moment  a  footstep  was 
heard  behind  him,  and  a  heavy  blow  from  a  club 
threw  him  prostrate  upon  the  floor.  It  came  from 
the  strong  arm  of  Martin  Franc  himself! 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  his  absence  was 
feigned.  His  wife  had  invented  the  story  to  decoy 
the  monk,  and  thereby  to  keep  her  husband  from 
beggary,  and  to  relieve  herself,  once  for  all,  from 
the  importunities  of  a  false  friend.  At  first  Martin 
Franc  would  not  listen  to  the  proposition ;  but  at 
length  he  yielded  to  the  urgent  entreaties  of  his 
wife ;  and  the  plan  finally  agreed  upon  was,  that 
Friar  Gui,  after  leaving  his  purse  behind  him, 
should  be  sent  back  to  the  convent  with  a  severer 
discipline  than  his  shoulders  had  ever  received  from 
any  penitence  of  his  own. 

The  affair,  however  took  a  more  serious  turn 
than  was  intended ;  for,  when  they  tried  to  raise 
the  friar  from  the  ground, — he  was  dead.  The 
blow  aimed  at  his  shoulders  fell  upon  his  shaven 
crown ;  and,  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment, 
Martin  Franc  had  dealt  a  heavier  stroke  than  he 
intended.  Amid  the  grief  and  consternation  which 
followed  this  discovery,  the  quick  imagination  of 
his  wife  suggested  an  expedient  of  safety.  A  bunch 
of  keys  at  the  friar's  girdle  caught  her  eye.  Hastily 
unfastening  the  ring,  she  gave  the  keys  to  her  hus 
band,  exclaiming, — 

"  For  the  holy  Virgin's  sake,  be  quick !  One  of 
these  keys  doubtless  unlocks  the  gate  of  the  con 
vent  garden.  Carry  the  body  thither,  and  leave  it 
the  trees  ! " 


36  MARTIN   FRANC   AND 

Martin  Franc  threw  the  dead  body  of  the  monk 
across  his  shoulders,  and  with  a  heavy  heart  took 
the  way  to  the  abbey.  It  was  a  clear,  starry  night ; 
and  though  the  moon  had  not  yet  risen,  her  light 
was  in  the  sky,  and  came  reflected  down  in  a  soft 
twilight  upon  earth.  Not  a  sound  was  heard 
through  all  the  long  and  solitary  streets,  save  at 
intervals  the  distant  crowing  of  a  cock,  or  the  mel 
ancholy  hoot  of  an  owl  from  the  lofty  tower  of  the 
abbey.  The  silence  weighed  like  an  accusing  spirit 
upon  the  guilty  conscience  of  Martin  Franc.  He 
started  at  the  sound  of  his  own  breathing,  as  he 
panted  under  the  heavy  burden  of  the  monk's 
body;  and  if,  perchance,  a  bat  flitted  near  him  on 
drowsy  wings,  he  paused,  and  his  heart  beat  audibly 
with  terror.  At  length  he  reached  the  garden-wall 
of  the  abbey,  opened  the  postern-gate  with  the  key, 
and,  bearing  the  monk  into  the  garden,  seated  him 
upon  a  stone  bench  by  the  edge  of  the  fountain, 
with  his  head  resting  against  a  column,  upon  which 
was  sculptured  an  image  of  the  Madonna.  He 
Ihen  replaced  the  bunch  of  keys  at  the  monk's 
girdle,  and  returned  homo  with  hasty  steps. 

When  the  prior  of  the  convent,  to  whom  the 
repeated  delinquencies  of  Friar  Gui  were  but  too 
well  known,  observed  that  he  was  again  absent 
from  hia  post  at  midnight  prayers,  he  waxed  ex- 
seedingly  angry;  and  no  sooner  were  the  duties 
of  the  chapel  finished,  than  he  sent  a  monk  in  pur 
suit  of  the  truant  sacristan,  summoning  him  to 
appear  immediately  at  his  cell.  By  chance  it  hap- 


THE   MONK   OF   SAINT   ANTHONY.  37 

pened  that  the  monk  chosen  for  this  duty  was  an 
enemy  of  Friar  Gui ;  and  very  shrewdly  supposing 
that  the  sacristan  had  stolen  out  of  the  garden-gate 
on  some  midnight  adventure,  he  took  that  direction 
in  pursuit.  The  moon  was  just  climbing  the  con 
vent  wall,  and  threw  its  silvery  light  through  the 
trees  of  the  garden,  and  on  the  sparkling  waters  of 
the  fountain,  that  fell  with  a  soft  lulling  sound  into 
the  deep  basin  below.  As  the  monk  pas&ed  on  his 
way,  he  stopped  to  quench  his  thirst  witli  a  draught 
of  the  cool  water,  and  was  turning  to  depart,  when 
his  eye  caught  the  motionless  form  of  the  sacristan, 
sitting  erect  in  the  shadow  of  the  stone  column. 

"  How  is  this,  Friar  Gui  ?  "  quoth  the  monk. 
"  Is  this  a  place  to  be  sleeping  at  midnight,  when 
the  brotherhood  are  all  at  their  prayers  ?  " 

Friar  Gui  made  no  answer. 

"  Up,  up  !  thou  eternal  sleeper,  and  do  penance 
for  thy  negligence.  The  prior  calls  for  thee  at  hig 
cell ! "  continued  the  monk,  growing  angry,  and 
shaking  the  sacristan  by  the  shoulder. 

But  still  no  answer. 

"  Then,  by  Saint  Anthony,  I'll  wake  thee  I " 

And  saying  this,  he  dealt  the  sacristan  a  heavy 
box  on  the  ear.  The  body  bent  slowly  forward 
from  its  erect  position,  and,  giving  -a  headlong 
plunge,  sank  with  a  heavy  splash  into  the  basin  of 
the  fountain.  The  monk  waited  a  few  moments  in 
expectation  of  seeing  Friar  Gui  rise  dripping  from 
his  cold  bath ;  but  he  waited  in  vain ;  for  he  lay 
motionless  at  the  bottom  of  the  basin,- -his  eyes 


38  MARTIN   FRANC   AND 

open,  and  his  ghastly  face  distorted  by  the  ripples 
of  the  water.  With  a  beating  heart  the  inouk 
stooped  down,  and,  grasping  the  skirt  of  the  sacris 
tan's  habit,  at  length  succeeded  in  drawing  him 
from  the  water.  All  efforts,  however,  to  resusci 
tate  him  were  unavailing.  The  monk  was  filled 
with  terror,  not  doubting  that  the  friar  had  died 
untimely  by  his  hand;  and  as  the  animosity  be 
tween  them  was  no  secret  in  the  convent,  he 
feared,  that,  when  the  deed  was  known,  he  should 
be  accused  of  murder.  lie  therefore  looked  round 
for  an  expedient  to  reh'eve  himself  from  the  dead 
body  ;  and  the  well-known  character  of  the  sacris 
tan  soon  suggested  one.  He  determined  to  carry 
the  body  to  the  house  of  the  most  noted  beauty  of 
Rouen,  and  leave  it  on  the  door-step ;  so  that  all 
suspicion  of  the  murder  might  fall  upon  the  shoul 
ders  of  some  jealous  husband.  The  beauty  of  Mar 
tin  Franc's  wife  had  penetrated  even  the  thick  walls 
of  the  convent,  and  there  was  not  a  friar  in  the 
whole  abbey  of  Saint  Anthony  who  had  not  done 
penance  for  his  truant  imagination.  Accordingly, 
the  dead  body  of  Friar  Gui  was  laid  upon  the 
monk's  brawny  shoulders,  carried  back  to  the  house 
of  Martin  Franc,  and  placed  in  an  erect  position 
against  the  xloor.  The  monk  knocked  loud  and 
long;  and  then,  gliding  through  a  by-lane,  stole 
back  to  the  convent 

A  troubled  conscience  would  not  suffer  Martin 
Franc  and  his  wife  to  close  their  eyes ;  but  they 
lay  awake  lamenting  the  doleful  events  of  the  night 


THE   MONK   OF   SAINT   ANTHONY.  3$ 

*^V*  knock  at  the  door  sounded  like  a  death-knell 
i-.  »faeir  ears.  It  still  continued  at  intervals,  rap — 
lu^ — rap ! — with  a  dull,  low  sound,  as  if  something 
hctt-yy  were  swinging  against  the  panel ;  for  the  wind 
hau  risen  during  the  night,  and  every  angry  gust 
tha«  swept  down  the  alley  swung  the  arms  of  the 
lifeiv^s  sacristan  against  the  door.  At  length  Mar 
tin  jt  ranc  mustered  courage  enough  to  dress  him 
self  «nd  go  down,  while  his  wife  followed  him  with 
a  laiup  in  her  hand ;  but  no  sooner  had  he  lifted 
the  L,«ch,  than  the  ponderous  body  of  Friar  Gui 
fell  st«*rk  and  heavy  into  his  arms. 

" Jwsu  Maria!"  exclaimed  Marguerite,  crossing 
hersel* ;  "  here  is  the  monk  again  ! " 

"  Yes,  and  dripping  wet,  as  if  he  had  just  been 
dragged  out  of  the  river ! " 

"  O,  we  are  betrayed ! "  exclaimed  Marguerite, 
in  agony. 

"  Then  the  devil  himself  has  betrayed  us,"  re 
plied  Martin  Franc,  disengaging  himself  from  the 
embrace  of  the  sacristan ;  "  for  I  met  not  a  living 
being ;  the  whole  city  was  as  silent  as  the  grave." 

"  Saint  Martin  defend  us  !  "  continued  his  terri 
fied  wife.  "  Here,  take  this  scapulary  to  guard  you 
from  the  Evil  One ;  and  lose  no  time.  You  must 
throw  the  body  into  the  river,  or  we  are  lost !  Holy 
Virgin  !  How  bright  the  moon  sliines  ! " 

Saying  this,  she  threw  round  his  neck  a  scapu 
lary,  with  the  figure  of  a  cross  on  one  end,  and  an 
image  of  the  Virgin  on  the  other ;  and  Martin 
Franc  again  took  the  dead  friar  upon  his  shoul- 


40  MARTIN   FRANC   AND 

ders,  and  with  fearful  misgivings  departed  on  Ua 
dismal  errand.  lie  kept  as  much  as  possible  in 
the  shadow  of  the  houses,  and  had  nearly  reached 
the  quay,  when  suddenly  he  thought  he  heard  foot 
steps  behind  him.  He  stopped  to  listen  ;  it  was  no 
vain  imagination ;  they  came  along  the  pavement, 
tramp,  tramp !  and  every  step  grew  louder  and 
nearer.  Martin  Franc  tried  to  quicken  his  pace,— 
but  in  vain ;  his  knees  smote  together,  and  he  stag 
gered  against  the  wall.  His  hand  relaxed  its  grasp, 
and  the  monk  slid  f.om  his  back  and  stood  ghastly 
and  straight  beside  him,  supported  by  chance 
against  the  shoulder  of  his  bearer.  At  that  mo 
ment  a  man  came  round  the  corner,  tottering 
beneath  the  weight  of  a  huge  sack.  As  his  head 
was  bent  downwards,  he  did  not  perceive  Martin 
Franc  till  he  was  close  upon  him ;  and  when,  on 
looking  up,  he  saw  two  figures  standing  motionless 
in  the  shadow  of  the  wall,  he  thought  himself  way 
laid,  and,  without  waiting  to  be  assaulted,  dropped 
the  sack  from  his  shoulders  and  ran  off  at  full 
speed.  The  sack  fell  heavily  on  the  pavement, 
and  directly  at  the  feet  of  Martin  Franc.  In  the 
fall  the  string  was  broken ;  and  out  came  the  bloody 
head,  not  of  a  dead  monk,  as  it  first  seemed  to  the 
excited  imagination  of  Martin  Franc,  but  of  a  dead 
hog !  When  the  terror  and  surprise  caused  by  this 
singular  event  had  a  little  subsided,  an  idea  came 
into  the  mind  of  Martin  Franc,  very  similar  to  what 
would  have  come  into  the  mind  of  almost  any  per 
son  in  similar  circumstances.  He  took  the  hog  out 


THE    MONK    OF    SAINT    ANTHONY.  41 

of  the  sack,  and,  putting  the  body  of  the  monk  iuto 
its  place,  secured  it  well  with  the  remnants  of  the 
broken  string,  and  then  hurried  homeward  with  the 
animal  upon  his  shoulders. 

He  was  hardly  out  of  sight  when  the  man  with 
the  sack  returned,  accompanied  by  two  others. 
They  were  surprised  to  find  the  sack  still  lying  on 
the  ground,  with  no  one  near  it,  and  began  to  jeer 
the  former  bearer,  telling  him  he  had  been  fright 
ened  at  his  own  shadow  on  the  wall.  Then  one  of 
them  took  the  sack  upon  his  shoulders,  without  the 
least  suspicion  of  the  change  that  had  been  made 
in  its  contents,  and  all  three  disappeared. 

Now  it  happened  that"  the  city  of  Rouen  was  at 
that  time  infested  by  three  street  robbers,  who 
walked  in  darkness  like  the  pestilence,  and  always 
carried  the  plunder  of  their  midnight  marauding 
to  the  Tete-de-Boeuf,  a  little  tavern  in  one  of  the 
darkest  and  narrowest  lanes  of  the  city.  The  host 
of  the  Tete-de-Boeuf  was  privy  to  all  their  schemes, 
ard  had  an  equal  share  in  the  profits  of  their  night 
ly  excursions.  He  gave  a  helping  hand,  too,  by 
the  length  of  his  bills,  and  by  plundering  the  pock 
ets  of  any  chance  traveller  that  was  luckless 
enough  to  sleep  under  his  roof. 

On  the  night  of  the  disastrous  adventure  of 
Friar  Gui,  this  little  marauding  party  had  been 
prowling  about  the  city  until  a  late  hour,  without 
finding  any  thing  to  reward  their  labors.  At  length, 
however,  they  chanced  to  spy  a  hog,  hanging  under 
a  shed  in  a  butcher's  yard,  in  readiness  for  the  next 


42  MARTIN   FRANC   AND 

day's  market;  and  as  they  were  not  very  fastidious 
in  selecting  their  plunder,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
rather  addicted  to  taking  whatever  they  could  lay 
their  hands  on,  the  hog  was  straightway  purloined, 
thrust  into  a  largo  sack,  and  sent  to  the  Tete-de- 
Boeuf  on  the  shoulders  of  one  of  the  party,  while 
the  other  two  continued  their  nocturnal  excursion. 
It  was  this  person  who  had  been  so  terrified  at  the 
appearance  of  Martin  Franc  and  the  dead  monk ; 
and  as  this  encounter  had  interrupted  any  further 
operations  of  the  party,  the  dawn  of  day  being  now 
near  at  hand,  they  all  repaired  to  their  gloomy  den 
in  the  Tete-de-Bceuf.  The  host  was  impatiently 
waiting  their  return ;  and,  asking  what  plunder 
they  had  brought  with  them,  proceeded  without 
delay  to  remove  it  from  the  sack.  The  first  thing 
Jhat  presented  itself,  on  untying  the  string,  was  the 
monk's  hood. 

"  The  devil  take  the  devil ! "  cried  the  host,  as 
he  opened  the  neck  of  the  sack ;  "  what's  this  ? 
Your  hog  wears  a  cowl !  " 

"  The  poor  devil  has  become  disgusted  with  the 
world,  and  turned  monk ! "  said  he  who  held  the 
iight,  a  little  surprised  at  seeing  the  head  covered 
with  a  coarse  gray  cloth. 

"  Sure  enough  he  has,"  exclaimed  another,  start 
ing  back  in  dismay,  as  the  shaven  crown  and  ghast 
ly  face  of  the  friar  appeared.  "  Holy  St.  Benedict 
be  with  us !  It  is  a  monk,  stark  dead  ! " 

"  A  dead  monk,  indeed  !  "  said  a  third,  with  an 
incredulous  shake  of  the  head ;  "  how  could  a  dead 


THE   MONK   OF   SAINT   ANTHONY.  43 

monk  get  into  this  sack  ?  No,  no ;  there  is  somo 
diablerie  in  this.  I  have  heard  it  said  that  Satan 
can  take  any  shape  he  pleases ;  and  you  may  rely 
upon  "  it  this  is  Satan  himself,  who  has  taken  tho 
shape  of  a  monk  to  get  us  all  hanged." 

"  Then  we  had  better  kill  the  devil  than  have 
the  devil  kill  us ! "  replied  the  host,  crossing  him 
self;  "  and  the  sooner  we  do  it  the  better  ;  for  it  is 
now  daylight,  and  the  people  will  soon  be  passing 
in  the  street." 

"  So  say  I,"  rejoined  the  man  of  magic ;  "  and 
my  advice  is,  to  take  him  to  the  butcher's  yard, 
and  hang  him  up  in  the  place  where  we  found  the 
bog." 

This  proposition  so  pleased  the  others  that  it  was 
executed  without  delay.  They  carried  the  friar  to 
the  butcher's  house,  and,  passing  a  strong  cord 
round  his  neck,  suspended  him  to  a  beam  in  the 
shade,  and  there  left  him. 

When  the  night  was  at  length  past,  and  daylight 
began  tb  peep  into  the  eastern  windows  of  the  city, 
the  butcher  arose,  and  prepared  himself  for  market. 
lie  was  casting  up  in  his  mind  what  the  hog  would 
bring  at  his  stall,  when,  looking  upward,  lo !  in  its 
place  he  recognized  the  dead  body  of  Friar  Gui. 

"  By  St.  Denis  ! "  quoth  the  butcher,  "  I  always 
feared  that  this  friar  would  not  die  quietly  in  his 
cell ;  but  I  never  thought  I  should  find  him  hang 
ing  under  my  own  roof.  This  must  not  be ;  it  will 
be  said  that  I  murdered  him,  and  I  shall  pay  for  it 
with  my  life.  I  must  contrive  some  way  to  get  ri(J 
of  him." 


44  MARTIN   FRANC   AND 

So  saying,  he  called  his  man,  and,  showing  him 
what  had  been  done,  asked  him  how  he  should  dis 
pose  of  the  body  so  that  he  might  not  be  accused 
of  murder.  The  man,  who  was  of  a  ready  wit, 
reflected  a  moment,  and  then  answered, — 

"  This  is  indeed  a  difficult  matter ;  but  there  is 
no  evil  without  its  remedy.  We  will  place  the 

friar  on  horseback " 

.  "  What !  a  dead  man  on  horseback  ? — impos 
sible  ! "  interrupted  the  butcher.  "  Who  ever 
heard  of  a  dead  man  on  horseback  ! " 

"  Hear  me  out,  and  then  judge.  We  must  place 
the  bod}  on  horseback  as  well  as  we  may,  and  bind 
it  fast  with  cords ;  and  then  set  the  horse  loose  in 
the  street,  and  pursue  him,  crying  out  that  the 
monk  has  stolen  the  horse.  Thus  all  who  meet 
him  will  strike  him  with  their  staves  as  he  passes, 
and  it  will  be  thought  that  he  came  to  his  death  in 
that  way." 

Though  this  seemed  to  the  butcher  rather  a  mad 
project,  yet,  as  no  better  one  offered  itself  at  the 
moment,  and  there  was  no  time  for  reflection,  mad 
as  the  project  wras,  they  determined  to  put  it  into 
execution.  Accordingly  the  butcher's  horse  was 
brought  out,  and  the  friar  was  bound  upon  hia 
back,  and  with  much  difficulty  fixed  in  an  upright 
position.  The  butcher  then  gave  the  horse  a  blow 
upon  the  crupper  with  his  staff,  which  set  him  into 
a  smart  gallop  down  the  street,  and  he  and  his  man 
joined  in  pursuit,  crying, — 

"  Stop  thief!  Stop  thief  I  The  friar  has  stolen 
mv  horse  1 " 


THE   MONK   OF   SAINT   ANTHONY.  45 

As  it  was  now  sunrise,  the  streets  were  full  of 
people, — peasants  driving  their  goods  to  market, 
and  citizens  going  to  their  daily  avocations.  When 
they  saw  the  friar  dashing  at  full  speed  down  the 
street,  they  joined  in  the  cry  of  "  Stop  thief! — 
Stop  thief !  "  and  many  who  endeavoured  to  seizo 
the  bridle,  as  the  friar  passed  them  at  full  speed, 
were  thrown  upon  the  pavement,  and  trampled 
under  foot ;  others  joined  in  the  halloo  and  the 
pursuit ;  but  this  only  served  to  quicken  the  gal 
lop  of  the  frightened  steed,  who  dashed  down  one 
street  and  up  another  like  the  wind,  with  two 
or  three  mounted  citizens  clattering  in  full  cry  at 
his  heels.  At  length  they  reached  the  market 
place.  The  people  scattered  right  and  left  in  dis 
may  ;  and  the  steed  and  rider  dashed  onward,  over 
throwing  in  their  course  men  and  women,  and  stalls, 
and  piles  of  merchandise,  and  sweeping  away  like 
a  whirlwind.  Tramp — tramp — tramp  !  they  clat 
tered  on;  they  had  distanced  all  pursuit.  They 
reached  the  quay ;  the  wide  pavement  was  cleared 
at  a  bound, — one  more  wild  leap, — and  splash  ! — 
both  horse  and  rider  sank  into  the  rapid  current  of 
the  river, — swept  down  the  stream, — and  were  seen 
no  more  1 


THE 

VILLAGE   OF  AUTEUIL. 

H  n'cst  tel  plaisir 
Qu«  d'etre  A  gesir 
Pnrmy  les  beaux  champs, 
L'herbe  verde  choisir, 
Et  prcndre  bon  temps. 

MARTIAL  D'AUTERQXE. 

THE  sultry  heat  of  summer  always  brings  with 
it,  to  the  idler  and  the  man  of  leisure,  a  longing 
for  the  leafy  shade  and  the  green  luxuriance  of  the 
country.  It  is  pleasant  to  interchange  the  din  of 
the  city,  the  movement  of  the  crowd,  and  the  gos 
sip  of  society,  with  the  silence  of  the  hamlet,&the 
quiet  seclusion  of  the  grove,  and  the  gossip  of  a 
woodland  brook.  As  is  sung  in  the  old  ballad  of 
Robin  Hood, — 

"  In  somer,  when  the  shawes  be  sheyn, 

And  leves  be  large  nnd  long, 
Hit  is  full  mery  in  feyre  foreste, 

To  here  the  foulys  song; 
To  se  the  dero  draw  to  the  dalo 

And  leve  the  hilles  hee, 
And  shadow  hem  in  the  leves  grene, 

Vnder  the  grene  wode  tre." 


THE   VILLAGE   OF   AUTEUIL.  4V 

It  was  a  feeling  of  this  kind' that  prompted  me, 
during  my  residence  in  the  North  of  France,  to 
pass  one  of  the  summer  months  at  Auteuil,  the 
pleasantest  of  the  many  little  villages  that  lie  in  the 
immediate  vicinity  of  the  metropolis.  It  is  situated 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  a  "wood 
of  some  extent,  in  whose  green  alleys  the  dusty  cit 
enjoys  the  luxury  of  an  evening  drive,  and  gentle 
men  meet  in  the  morning  to  give  each  other  satis 
faction  in  the  usual  way.  A  cross-road,  skirted 
with  green  hedgerows,  and  overshadowed  by  tall 
poplars,  leads  you  from  the  noisy  highway  of  St. 
Cloud  and  Versailles  to  the  still  retirement  of  this 
suburban  hamlet.  On  either  side  the  eye  discovers 
old  chateaux  amid  the  trees,  and  green  parks, 
whose  pleasant  shades  recall  a  thousand  images  of 
La  Fontaine,  Racine,  and  Moliere ;  and  on  an 
eminence,  overlooking  the  windings  of  the  Seine, 
and  giving  a  beautiful  though  distant  view  of  the 
domes  and  gardens  of  Paris,  rises  the  village  of 
Passy,  long  the  residence  of  our  countrymen 
Franklin  and  Count  Rumford. 

I  took  up  my  abode  at  a  maison  de  sante;  not 
that  I  was  a  valetudinarian,  but  because  I  there 
found  some  one  to  whom  I  could  whisper,  "  How 
sweet  is  solitude  ! "  Behind  the  house  was  a  garden 
filled  with  fruit-trees  of  various  kinds,  and  adorned 
with  gravel-walks  and  green  arbours,  furnished 
with  tables  and  rustic  seats,  for  the  repose  of  the 
invalid  and  the  sleep  of  the  indolent.  Here  the 
inmates  of  the  rural  hospital  met  on  common 


48  THE    VILLAGE    OF    AUTEUIL. 

ground,  to  breathe  the  invigorating  air  of  morning, 
find  while  away  the  lazy  noon  or  vacant  evening 
•with  tales  of  the  sick-chamber. 

The  establishment  was  kept  by  Dr.  Dentdelion, 
a  dried-up  little  fellow,  with  red  hair,  a  sandy  com 
plexion,  and  the  physiognomy  and  gestures  of  a 
monkey.  His  character  corresponded  to  his  out 
ward  lineaments ;  for  he  had  all  a  monkey's  busy 
and  curious  impertinence.  Nevertheless,  such  as 
he  was,  the  village  -ZEsculapius  strutted  forth  the 
little  great  man  of  Auteuil.  The  peasants  looked 
up  to  him  as  to  an  oracle ;  he  contrived  to  be  at 
the  head  of  every  thing,  and  laid  claim  to  the 
credit  of  all  public  improvements  in  the  village ;  in 
fine,  he  was  a  great  man  on  a  small  scale. 

It  was  within  the  dingy  walls  of  this  little  poten 
tate's  imperial  palace  that  I  chose  my  country  resi 
dence.  I  had  a  chamber  in  the  second  story,  with 
a  solitary  window,  which  looked  upon  the  street, 
and  gave  me  a  peep  into  a  neighbour's  garden. 
This  I  esteemed  a  great  privilege;  for,  as  a 
stranger,  I  desired  to  see  all  that  was  passing  out 
of  doors;  and  the  sight  of  green  trees,  though 
growing  on  another's  ground,  is  always  a  blessing. 
Within  doors — had  I  been  disposed  to  quarrel  with 
my  household  gods — I  might  have  taken  some  ob 
jection  to  my  neighbourhood ;  for,  on  one  side  of 
me  was  a  consumptive  patient,  whose  graveyard 
cough  drove  me  from  my  chamber  by  day ;  and  on 
the  other,  an  English  colonel,  whose  incoherent 
ravings,  in  the  delirium  of  a  high  and  obstinate 


THE    VILLAGE    OF   AUTEUIL.  4.9 

fever,  often  broke  my  slumbers  by  night ;  but  I 
found  ample  amends  for  these  inconveniences  in 
the  society  of  those  who  were  so  little  indisposed  as 
hardly  to  know  Avhat  ailed  them,  and  those  who, 
in  health  themselves,  had  accompanied  a  friend  or 
relative  to  the  shades  of  the  country  in  pursuit  of 
it  To  these  I  am  indebted  for  much  courtesy; 
and  particularly  to  one  who,  if  these  pages  should 
ever  meet  her  eye,  will  not,  I  hope,  be  unwilling 
to  accept  this  slight  memorial  of  a  former  friend 
ship. 

It  was,  however,  to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  that  I 
looked  for  my  principal  recreation.  There  I  took 
my  solitary  walk,  morning  and  evening;  or, 
mounted  on  a  little  mouse-colored  donkey,  paced 
demurely  along  the  woodland  pathway.  I  had  a 
favorite  seat  beneath  the  shadow  of  a  venerable 
oak,  one  of  the  few  hoary  patriarchs  of  the  wood 
which  had  survived  the  bivouacs  of  the  allied 
armies.  It  stood  upon  the  brink  of  a  little  glassy 
pool,  whose  tranquil  bosom  was  the  image  of  a 
quiet  and  secluded  life,  and  stretched  its  parental 
arms  over  a  rustic  bench,  that  had  been  constructed 
beneath  it  for  the  accommodation  of  the  foot- 
traveller,  or,  perchance,  some  idle  dreamer  liko 
myself.  It  seemed  to  look  round  with  a  lordly  air 
upon  its  old  hereditary  domain,  whose  stillness  was 
no  longer  broken  by  the  tap  of  the  martial  drum, 
nor  the  discordant  clang  of  arms;  and,  as  the 
breeze  whispered  among  its  branches,  it  seemed  to 
be  holding  friendly  colloquies  with  a  feAV  of  its 

VOL.  i.  4 


50  THE    VILLAGE    OF    AUTETTIT.. 

venerable  contemporaries,  who  stooped  from  the 
opposite  bank  of  the  pool,  nodding  gravely  now 
and  then,  and  gazing  at  themselves  with  a  sigh  in 
the  mirror  below. 

In  this  quiet  haunt  of  rural  repose  I  used  to  sit 
at  noon,  hear  the  birds  sing,  and  "  possess  myself 
in  much  quietness."  Just  at  my  feet  lay  the  little 
silver  pool,  with  the  sky  and  the  woods  painted  in 
its  mimic  vault,  and  occasionally  the  image  of  a 
bird,  or  the  soft,  watery  outline  of  a  cloud,  floating 
silently  through  its  sunny  hollows.  The  water-lily 
spread  its  broad,  green  leaves  on  the  surface,  and 
rocked  to  sleep  a  little  world  of  insect  life  in  its 
golden  cradle.  Sometimes  a  wandering  leaf  came 
floating  and  wavering  downward,  and  settled  on 
the  water;  then  a  vagabond  insect  would  break 
the  smooth  surface  into  a  thousand  ripples,  or  a 
green-coated  frog  slide  from  the  bank,  and,  plump ! 
dive  headlong  to  the  bottom. 

I  entered,  too,  with  some  enthusiasm,  into  all  the 
rural  sports  and  mcrrimakes  of  the  village.  The 
holidays  were  so  many  little  eras  of  mirth  and  good 
feeling;  for  the  French  have  that  happy  and  sun 
shine  temperament, — that  merry-go-mad  character, 
— which  renders  all  their  social  meetings  scenes  of 
enjoyment  and  hilarity.  I  made  it  a  point  never 
to  miss  any  of  the  files  champetres,or  rural  dances, 
at  the  wood  of  Boulogne;  though  I  confess  it  some 
times  gave  me  a  momentary  uneasiness  to  see  my 
rustic  throne  beneath  the  oak  usurped  by  a  noisy 
group  of  girls,  the  silence  and  decorum  of  my 


THE    VILLAGE    OF   AUTEUIL.  51 

imaginary  realm  broken  by  music  and  laughter, 
and,  in  a  word,  my  whole  kingdom  turned  topsy 
turvy  with  romping,  fiddling,  and  dancing.  But  I 
am  naturally,  and  from  principle,  too,  a  lover  of 
all  those  innocent  amusements  which  cheer  the 
laborer's  toil,  and,  as  it  were,  put  their  shoulders  to 
the  wheel  of  life,  and  help  the  poor  man  along 
with  his  load  of  cares.  Hence  I  saw  with  no  small 
delight  the  rustic  swain  astride  the  wooden  horse 
of  the  carrousel,  and  the  village  maiden  whirling 
round  and  round  in  its  dizzy  car;  or  took  my 
stand  on  a  rising  ground  that  overlooked  the  dance, 
an  idle  spectator  in  a  busy  throng.  It  was  just 
where  the  village  touched  the  outward  border  of 
the  wood.  There  a  little  area  had  been  levelled 
beneath  the  trees,  surrounded  by  a  painted  rail, 
with  a  row  of  benches  inside.  The  music  was 
placed  in  a  slight  balcony,  built  around  the  trunk 
of  a  large  tree  in  the  centre  ;  and  the  lamps,  hang 
ing  from  the  branches  above,  gave  a  gay,  fantastic, 
and  fairy  look  to  the  scene.  How  often  in  such 
moments  did  I  recall  the  lines  of  Goldsmith, 
describing  those  "kinder  skies"  beneath  which 
"France  displays  her  bright  domain,"  and  feel 
how  true  and  masterly  the  sketch, — 

"  Alike  all  ages ;  dames  of  ancient  days 
Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze, 
And  the  gray  grandsire,  skilled  in  gestic  lore, 
Has  frisked  beneath  the  burden  of  threescore." 

Nor  must  I  forget  to  mention  the  fete 


52  THE    VILLAGE    OF    AUTEUIL. 

— a  kind  of  annual  fair,  which  is  held  at  midsum 
mer,  in  honor  of  the  patron  saint  of  Auteuil.  Then 
the  principal  street  of  the  village  is  filled  with 
booths  of  every  description ;  strolling  players,  and 
rope-dancers,  and  jugglers,  and  giants,  and  dwarfs, 
and  wild  beasts,  and  all  kinds  of  wonderful  shows, 
excite  the  gaping  curiosity  of  the  throng ;  and  in 
dust,  crowds,  and  confusion,  the  village  rivals  the 
capital  itself.  Then  the  goodly  dames  of  Passy 
descend  into  the  village  of  Auteuil ;  then  the 
brewers  of  Billancourt  and  the  tanners  of  Sevres 
dance  lustily  under  the  greenwood  tree ;  and  then, 
too,  the  sturdy  fishmongers  of  Bretigny  and  Saint- 
Yon  regale  their  fat  wives  with  an  airing  in  a 
swing,  and  their  customers  with  eels  and  crawfish ; 
or,  as  is  more  poetically  set  forth  in  an  old  Christ 
mas  carol, — 

"  Vous  eussioz  vu  venir  tous  ceux  de  Saint- Yon, 
Et  ceux  de  Bretigny  apportant  du  poisson, 
Les  barbeaux  et  gardens,  anguilles  et  carpettes 
Ktoient  &  bon  marche* 

Croyez, 
A  cette  journee-la. 

La,  Hi, 
Et  aussi  les  perchettes." 

I  found  another  source  of  amusement  in  observ 
ing  the  various  personages  that  daily  passed  and 
repassed  beneath  my  window.  The  character 
which  most  of  all  arrested  my  attention  was  a 
poor  blind  fiddler,  whom  I  first  saw  chanting  a 
doleful  ballad  at  the  door  of  a  small  tavern  near 


THE   VILLAGE    OF    AUTEUIL.  53 

the  gate  of  the  village.  He  wore  a  brown  ccat,  out 
at  elbows,  the  fragment  of  a  velvet  waistcoat,  and  a 
pair  of  tight  nankeens,  so  short  as  hardly  to  reach 
below  his  calves.  A  little  foraging  cap,  that  had 
long  since  seen  its  best  days,  set  off  an  open,  good- 
humored  countenance,  bronzed  by  sun  and  wind. 
He  was  led  about  by  a  brisk,  middle-aged  woman, 
in  straw  hat  and  wooden  shoes ;  and  a  little  bare 
footed  boy,  with  clear,  blue  eyes  and  flaxen  hair, 
held  a  tattered  hat  in  his  Land,  in  which  he 
collected  eleemosynary  sous.  The  old  fellow  had 
a  favorite  song,  which  he  used  to  sing  with  great 
glee  to  a  merry,  joyous  air,  the  burden  of  which 
ran  "  Chantons  I 'amour  et  le  plaisir!"  I  often 
thought  it  would  have  been  a  good  lesson  for  the 
crabbed  and  discontented  rich  man  to  have  heard 
this  remnant  of  humanity, — poor,  blind,  and  in 
rags,  and  dependent  upon  casual  charity  for  his 
daily  bread,  singing  in  so  cheerful  a  voice  the 
charms  of  existence,  and,  as  it  were,  fiddling  life 
away  to  a  merry  tune. 

I  was  one  morning  called  to  my  window  by  the 
sound  of  rustic  music.  I  looked  out  and  beheld  a 
procession  of  villagers  advancing  along  the  road, 
attired  in  gay  dresses,  and  marching  merrily  on  in 
the  direction  of  the  church.  I  soon  perceived  that 
it  was  a  marriage-festival.  The  procession  was  led 
by  a  long  ourang-outang  of  a  man,  in  a  straw  hat 
and  white  dimity  bob-coat,  playing  on  an  asthmatic 
clarionet,  from  which  he  contrived  to  blow  un 
earthly  sounds,  ever  and  anon  squeaking  ofF  at 


54  THE   VILLAGE   OF   AUTEUIL. 

right  angles  from  his  tune,  and  winding  up  with  a 
grand  flourish  on  the  guttural  notes.  Behind  him, 
led  by  his  little  boy,  came  the  blind  fiddler,  his 
honest  features  glowing  with  all  the  hilarity  of  a 
rustic  bridal,  and,  as  he  stumbled  along,  sawing 
away  upon  his  fiddle  till  he  made  all  crack  again. 
Then  came  the  happy  bridegroom,  dressed  in  his 
Sunday  suit  of  blue,  with  a  large  nosegay  in  his 
button-hole ;  and  close  beside  him  his  blushing 
bride,  with  downcast  eyes,  clad  in  a  white  robe 
and  slippers,  and  wearing  a  wreath  of  wliite  roses 
in  her  hair.  The  friends  and  relatives  brought  up 
the  procession  ;  and  a  troop  of  village  urchins  came 
shouting  along  in  the  rear,  scrambling  among 
themselves  for  the  largess  of  sous  and  sugar-plums 
that  now  and  then  issued  in  large  handfuls  from 
the  pockets  of  a  lean  man  in  black,  who  seemed  to 
officiate  as  master  of  ceremonies  on  the  occasion. 
I  gazed  on  the  procession  till  it  was  out  of  sight ; 
and  when  the  last  wheeze  of  the  clarionet  died 
upon  my  ear,  I  could  not  help  thinking  how  happy 
were  they  who  were  thus  to  dwell  together  in  the 
peaceful  bosom  of  their  native  village,  far  from  the 
gilded  misery  and  the  pestilential  vices  of  the 
town. 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  I  was  sitting 
by  the  window,  enjoying  the  freshness  of  the  air 
and  the  beauty  and  stillness  of  the  hour,  when  I 
beard  the  distant  and  solemn  hymn  of  the  Catholic 
burial-service,  at  first  so  faint  and  indistinct  that  it 
•eemed  an  illusion.  Tt  rose  mournfully  on  the 


THE    VILLAGE    OF    AUTEUIL.  55 

hush  of  evening, — died  gradually  away, — then 
ceased.  Then  it  rose  again,  nearer  and  more 
distinct,  and  soon  after  a  funeral  procession 
appeared,  and  passed  directly  beneath  my  window. 
It  was  led  by  a  priest,  bearing  the  banner  of  the 
church,  and  followed  by  two  boys,  holding  long 
flambeaux  in  their  hands.  Next  came  a  double 
file  of  priests  in  their  surplices,  with  a  missal  in 
one  hand  and  a  lighted  wax  taper  in  the  other, 
chanting  the  funeral  dirge  at  intervals, — now 
pausing,  and  then  again  taking  up  the  mournful 
burden  of  their  lamentation,  accompanied  by 
others,  who  played  upon  a  rude  kind  of  bassoon, 
with  a  dismal  and  wailing  sound.  Then  followed 
various  symbols  of  the  church,  and  the  bier  borne 
on  the  shoulders  of  four  men.  The  coffin  was 
covered  with  a  velvet  pall,  and  a  chaplet  of  white 
flowers  lay  upon  it,  indicating  that  the  deceased 
was  unmarried.  A  few  of  the  villagers  came 
behind,  clad  in  mourning  robes,  and  bearing 
lighted  tapers.  The  procession  passed  slowly 
along  the  same  street  that  in  the  morning  had 
been  thronged  by  the  gay  bridal  company.  A 
melancholy  train  of  thought  forced  itself  home 
upon  my  mind.  '  The  joys  and  sorrows  of  this 
world  are  so  strikingly  mingled !  Our  mirth  and 
grief  are  brought  so  mournfully  in  contact !  We 
laugh  while  others  weep, — and  others  rejoice  when 
we  are  sad !  The  light  heart  and  the  heavy  walk 
side  by  side  and  go  about  together !  Beneath  the 
same  roof  are  spread  the  wedding-feast  and  the 


56  THE    VILLAGE    OF    AUTEUIL. 

funeral-pall !  The  bridal-song  mingles  with  the 
burial-hymn !  One  goes  to  the  marriage-bed, 
another  to  the  grave ;  and  all  is  mutable,  uncer 
tain,  and  transitory. 

It  is  with  sensations  of  pure  delight  that  I  recur 
to  the  brief  period  of  my  existence  which  was 
passed  in  the  peaceful  shades  of  Auteuil.  There 
is  one  kind  of  wisdom  which  we  learn  from  the 
world,  and  another  kind  which  can  be  acquired  in 
solitude  only.  In  cities  we  study  those  around  us ; 
but  in  the  retirement  of  the  country  we  learn  to 
know  ourselves.  The  voice  within  us  is  more 
distinctly  audible  in  the  stillness  of  the  place ;  and 
the  gentler  affections  of  our  nature  spring  up  more 
freshly  in  its  tranquillity  and  sunshine, — nurtured 
by  the  healthy  principle  which  we  inhale  with  the 
pure  air,  and  invigorated  by  the  genial  influences 
which  descend  into  the  heart  from  the  quiet  of  the 
sylvan  solitude  around,  and  the  soft  serenity  of  the 
sky  above. 


JACQUELINE. 

Death  lies  on  her,  like  an  untimely  frost 
Upon  the  sweetest  flower  of  all  the  field. 

SHAKSPEARI. 

"  DEAR  mother,  is  it  not  the  bell  I  hear  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  child ;  the  bell  for  morning  prayers. 
It  is  Sunday  to-day." 

"  I  had  forgotten  it.  But  now  all  days  are  alike 
to  me.  Hark  !  it  sounds  again, — louder, — louder. 
Open  the  window,  for  I  love  the  sound.  The 
sunshine  and  the  fresh  morning  air  revive  me. 
And  the  church-bell, — O  mother, — it  reminds  me 
of  the  holy  Sabbath  mornings  by  the  Loire, — so 
calm,  so  hushed,  so  beautiful  1  Now  give  me  my 
p~ayer-book,  and  draw  the  curtain  back,  that  I 
may  see  the  green  trees  and  the  church-spire.  I 
feel  better  to-day,  dear  mother." 

It  was  a  bright,  cloudless  morning  in  August. 
The  dew  still  glistened  on  the  trees ;  and  a  slight 
breeze  wafted  to  the  sick-chamber  of  Jacqueline 
the  song  of  the  birds,  the  rustle  of  the  leaves,  and 
the  solemn  chime  of  the  church-bells.  She  had 
been  raised  up  in  bed,  and,  reclining  upon  the 
pillow,  was  gazing  wistfully  upon  the  quiet  scene 
without.  Her  mother  gave  her  the  prayer-book, 


58  JACQUELINE. 

and  tben  turned  away  to  hide  a  tear  that  stole 
down  her  cheek. 

At  length  the  bells  ceased.  Jacqueline  crossed 
herself,  kissed  a  pearl  crucifix  that  hung  around 
her  neck,  and  opened  the  silver  clasps  of  her 
missal.  For  a  time  she  seemed  wholly  absorbed 
in  her  devotions.  Her  lips  moved,  but  no  sound 
was  audible.  At  intervals  the  solemn  voice  of  tho 
priest  was  heard  at  a  distance,  and  then  the  con 
fused  responses  of  the  congregation,  dying  away  in 
inarticulate  murmurs.  Ere  long  the  thrilling  chant 
of  the  Catholic  service  broke  upon  the  ear.  At 
first  it  was  low,  solemn,  and  indistinct ;  then  it 
became  more  earnest  and  entreating,  as  if  inter 
ceding  and  imploring  pardon  for  sin ;  and  then 
arose  louder  and  louder,  full,  harmonious,  majestic, 
as  it  wafted  the  song  of  praise  to  heaven, — and 
suddenly  ceased.  Then  the  sweet  tones  of  the 
organ  were  heard, — trembling,  thrilling,  and  rising 
higher  and  higher,  and  filling  the  whole  air  with 
their  rich,  melodious  music.  What  exquisite 
accords ! — what  noble  harmonies  ! — what  touching 
pathos !  The  soul  of  the  sick  girl  seemed  to  kindle 
into  more  ardent  devotion,  and  to  be  rapt  away  to 
heaven  in  the  full,  harmonious  chorus,  as  it  swelled 
onward,  doubling  and  redoubling,  and  rolling 
upward  in  a  full  burst  of  rapturous  devotion  I 
Then  all  was  hushed  again.  Once  more  the  low 
sound  of  the  bell  smote  the  air,  and  announced  the 
elevation  of  the  host.  The  invalid  seemed  en 
tranced  in  prayer.  Her  book  had  fallen  beside 


JACQUELINE.  59 

her, — her  hands  were  clasped, — her  eyes  closed, — 
her  soul  retired  within  its  secret  chambers.  Then 
a  more  triumphant  peal  of  bells  arose.  The  tears 
gushed  from  her  closed  and  swollen  lids;  her 
cheek  was' flushed;  she  opened  her  dark  eyes,  and 
fixed  them  with  an  expression  of  deep  adoration 
and  penitence  upon  an  image  of  the  Saviour  on 
the  cross,  which  hung  at  the  foot  of  her  bed,  and 
her  lips  again  moved  in  prayer.  Her  countenance 
expressed  the  deepest  resignation.  She  seemed 
to  ask  only  that  she  might  die  in  peace,  and  go  to 
the  bosom  of  her  Redeemer. 

The  mother  was  kneeling  by  the  window,  with 
her  face  concealed  in  the  folds  of  the  curtain.  She 
arose,  and,  going  to  the  bedside  of  her  child,  threw 
her  arms  around  her  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  My  dear  mother,  I  shall  not  live  long ;  I  feel  it 
here.  This  piercing  pain, — at  times  it  seizes  me, 
and  I  cannot — cannot  breathe." 

"  My  child,  you  will  be  better  soon." 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  shall  be  better  soon.  All  tears, 
and  pain,  and  sorrow  will  be  over.  The  hymn  of 
adoration  and  entreaty  I  have  just  heard,  I  shall 
never  hear  again  on  earth.  Next  Sabbath,  mother, 
kneel  again  by  that  window  as  to-day.  I  shall  not 
be  here,  upon  this  bed  of  pain  arid  sickness ;  but 
when  you  hear  the  solemn  hymn  of  worship,  and 
the  beseeching  tones  that  wing  the  spirit  up  to 
God,  think,  mother,  that  I  am  there,  with  my  sweet 
sister  who  has  gone  before  us, — kneeling  at  our 
Saviour's  feet,  and  happy, — O,  how  happy ! " 


CO  JACQUELINE. 

The  afflicted  mother  made  no  reply, — her  heart 
was  too  full  to  speak. 

"  You  remember,  mother,  how  calmly  Amie 
died.  She  was  so  young  and  beautiful !  I  always 
pray  that  I  may  die  as  she  did.  I  do  not  fear  death 
as  I  did  before  she  was  taken  from  us.  But,  O,— ^ 
this  pain, — this  cruel  pain  ! — it  seems  to  draw  my 
mind  back  from  heaven.  When  it  leaves  me,  I 
shall  die  in  peace." 

"  My  poor  child !     God's  holy  will  be  done ! " 

The  invalid  soon  sank  into  a  quiet  slumber. 
The  excitement  was  over,  and  exhausted  nature 
sought  relief  in  sleep. 

The  persons  between  whom  this  scene  passed 
were  a  widow  and  her  sick  daughter,  from  the 
neighbourhood  of  Tours.  They  had  left  the  banks 
of  the  Loire  to  consult  the  more  experienced  phy 
sicians  of  the  metropolis,  and  had  been  directed  to 
the  maison  de  sante  at  Auteuil  for  the  benefit  of  the 
pure  air.  But  all  in  vain.  The  health  of  the  un 
complaining  patient  grew  worse  and  worse,  and  it 
soon  became  evident  that  the  closing  scene  was 
drawing  near. 

Of  this  Jacqueline  herself  seemed  conscious;  and 
towards  evening  she  expressed  a  wish  to  receive 
the  last  sacraments  of  the  church.  A  priest  was 
sent  for ;  and  ere  long  the  tinkling  of  a  little  bel1 
in  the  street  announced  his  approach.  lie  bore  in 
his  hand  a  silver  chalice  containing  the  consecrated 
wafer,  and  a  small  vessel  filled  with  the  holy  oil  of 
the  extreme  unction  hung  from  his  neck.  Before 


JACQUELINE.  61 

him  walked  a  boy  carrying  a  little  bell,  whose  sound 
announced  the  passing  of  these  symbols  of  the 
Catholic  faith.  In  the  rear,  a  few  of  the  villagers, 
bearing  lighted  wax  tapers,  formed  a  short  and 
melancholy  procession.  They  soon  entered  the 
sick-chamber,  and  the  glimmer  of  the  tapers  min 
gled  with  the  red  light  of  the  setting  sun  that  slio'. 
his  farewell  rays  through  the  open  window.  Th? 
vessel  of  oil  and  the  silver  chalice  were  placed  upop 
the  table  in  front  of  a  crucifix  that  h'jng  upon  the 
wall,  and  all  present,  excepting  the  priest,  threw 
themselves  upon  their  knees.  The  priest  then  ap 
proached  the  bed  of  the  dying  girl,  and  said,  in  a 
slow  and  solemn  tone, — 

"  The  King  of  kings  and  T  ord  of  lords  has  passed 
thy  threshold.  Is  thy  nyirit  ready  to  receive 
him?" 

"  It  is,  father." 

"  Hast  thou  confessed  thy  sins  ?  " 

"  Holy  father,  no." 

"  Confess  thyself,  then,  that  thy  sins  may  oe 
forgiven,  and  thy  name  recorded  in  the  book  of 
life." 

And,  burning  to  the  kneeling  crowd  around,  he 
waved  his  hand  for  them  to  retire,  and  was  left 
alone  with  the  sick  girl.  He  seated  himself  beside 
her  pillow,  and  the  subdued  whisper  of  the  confes- 
eion  mingled  with  the  murmur  of  the  evening  air, 
which  lifted  the  heavy  folds  of  the  curtains,  and 
ttole  in  upon  the  holy  scene.  Poor  Jacqueline  had 
few  sins  to  confess, — a  secret  thought  or  two  towards 


62  JACQUELINE. 

the  pleasures  and  delights  of  the  world, — a  wish  to 
live,  unuttered,  but  which,  to  the  eye  of  her  self- 
accusing  spirit,  seemed  to  resist  the  wise  providence 
of  God ; — no  more.  The  confession  of  a  meek  and 
lowly  heart  is  soon  made.  The  door  was  again 
opened ;  the  attendants  entered,  and  knelt  around 
the  bed,  and  the  priest  proceeded, — 

"  And  now  prepare  thyself  to  receive  with  con 
trite  heart  the  body  of  our  blessed  Lord  and 
Redeemer.  Dost  thou  believe  that  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  was  conceived  by  the  Holy  Spirit,  and  born 
of  the  Virgin  Mary  ?  " 

"  I  believe." 

And  all  present  joined  in  the  solemn  response, — 

"  I  believe." 

"  Dost  thou  believe  that  the  Father  is  God,  that 
the  Son  is  God,  and  that  the  Holy  Spirit  is  God, — 
three  persons  and  one  God  ?  " 

"  I  believe." 

"  Dost  thou  believe  that  the  Son  is  seated  on  the 
right  hand  of  the  Majesty  on  high,  whence  he  shall 
come  to  judge  the  quick  and  the  dead  ?  " 

"  I  believe." 

"  Dost  thou  believe  that  by  the  holy  sacraments 
of  the  church  thy  sins  are  forgiven  thee,  and  that 
thus  thou  art  made  worthy  of  eternal  life  ?  " 

"  I  believe." 

"  Dost  thou  pardon,  with  all  thy  heart,  all  who 
have  offended  thee  in  thought,  word,  or  deed  ?  " 

"  I  pardon  them." 

"And  dost  thou  ask  pardon  of  God  and  thy 


JACQUELINE.  63 

neighbour  for  all  offences  tliou  hast  committed 

O 

against  them,  either  in  thought,  word,  or  deed  ?  " 

"I  do!" 

"  Then  repeat  after  me, — O  Lord  Jesus,  I  am 
not  worthy,  nor  do  I  merit,  that  thy  divine  majesty 
should  enter  this  poor  tenement  of  clay ;  but,  ac 
cording  to  thy  holy  promises,  be  my  sins  forgiven, 
and  my  soul  washed  white  from  all  transgression." 

Then,  taking  a  consecrated  wafer  from  the  vase, 
he  placed  it  between  the  lips  of  the  dying  girl,  and; 
while  the  assistant  sounded  the  little  silver  bell, 
said, — 

"  Corpus  Domini  nosiri  Jcsu  Christi  custodial 
animam  tuam  in  vitam  eternam" 

And  the  kneeling  crowd  smote  their  breasts  and 
responded  in  one  solemn  voice, — 

"  Amen  ! " 

The  priest  then  took  a  little  golden  rod,  and 
dipping  it  in  holy  oil,  anointed  the  invalid  upon 
the  hands,  feet,  and  breast,  in  the  form  of  the  cross. 
When  these  ceremonies  were  completed,  the  priest 
and  his  attendants  retired,  leaving  the  mother  alone 
with  her  dying  child,  who,  from  the  exhaustion 
caused  by  the  preceding  scene,  sank  into  a  death 
like  sleep. 

"  Between  two  worlds  life  hovered  like  a  star, 
'Twixt  si^ht  and  morn,  upon  the  horizon's  verge." 

The  long  twilight  of  the  summer  evening  stole 
on  ;  tlie  shadows  deepened  without,  and  the  night- 
lamp  glimmered  feebly  in  the  sick-chamber;  but 


61  JACQUELINE. 

still  she  slept.  She  was  lying  with  her  hands 
clasped  upon  her  breast, — her  pallid  cheek  resting 
upon  the  pillow,  and  her  bloodless  lips  apart,  but 
motionless  and  silent  as  the  sleep  of  death.  Not  a 
breath  interrupted  the  silence  of  her  slumber.  Not 
a  movement  of  the  heavy  and  sunken  eyelid,  not  a 
trembling  of  the  h'p,  not  a  shadow  on  the  marble 
brow,  told  when  the  spirit  took  its  flight.  It  passed 
tc  a  better  world  than  this : — 

"  There's  a  perpetual  spring,— perpetual  youth ; 
No  joint-benumbing  cold,  nor  scorching  heat, 
Famine,  nor  age,  have  any  being  there." 


THE 

SEXAGENARIAN. 


Do  you  set  down  your  name  in  the  scroll  of  youth,  that  an 
written  down  old,  with  all  the  characters  of  age  ?  Hare  you  not 
a  moist  eye,  a  dry  hand,  a  yellow  cheek,  a  white  beard,  a  de 
creasing  leg?  SUAKSPEARE. 


THERE  he  goes,  in  his  long  russet  surtout,  sweep 
ing  down  yonder  gravel-walk,  beneath  the  trees, 
like  a  yellow  leaf  in  autumn  wafted  along  by  a  fit 
ful  gust  of  wind.  Now  he  pauses, — now  seems  to 
be  whirled  round  in  an  eddy, — and  now  rustles 
and  brushes  onward  again.  He  is  talking  to  him 
self  in  an  under-tone,  as  usual,  and  flourishes  a 
pinch  of  snuff  between  his  forefinger  and  his  thumb, 
ever  and  anon  drumming  on  the  cover  of  his  box, 
by  way  of  emphasis,  with  a  sound  like  the  tap  of  a 
woodpecker.  He  always  takes  a  morning  walk  in 
the  garden, — in  fact,  I  may  say  he  passes  the 
greater  part  of  the  day  there,  either  strolling  up 
and  down  the  gravel-walks,  or  sitting  on  a  rustic 
bench  in  one  of  the  leafy  arbors.  He  always 
wears  that  same  dress,  too ;  a  bell-crowned  hat,  a 
frilled  bosom,  and  white  dimity  vest,  soiled  with 
snuff, — like  nankeen  breeches,  and,  over  all,  that 

VOL.  i.  5 


66  THE   SEXAGENARIAN. 

long  and  flowing  surtout  of  russet-brown  Circassian, 
hanging  in  wrinkles  round  his  slender  body,  and 
toying  with  his  thin,  rakish  legs.  Such  is  his  con 
stant  garb,  morning  and  evening ;  and  it  gives  him 
a  cool  and  breezy  look,  even  in  the  heat  of  a  noon 
day  in  August 

The  personage  sketched  in  the  preceding  para 
graph  is  Monsieur  D'Argentville,  a  sexagenarian, 
with  whom  I  became  acquainted  during  my  res 
idence  at  the  maison  de  aanle  of  Auteuil.  I  found 
him  there,  and  left  him  there.  Nobody  knew  when 
he  came, — he  had  been  there  from  time  imme 
morial  ;  nor  when  he  was  going  away, — for  he  him 
self  did  not  know;  nor  what  ailed  him, — for  though 
he  was  always  complaining,  yet  he  grew  neither 
better  nor  worse,  never  consulted  the  physician, 
and  ate  voraciously  three  times  a  day.  At  table 
he  was  rather  pee>  hsh,  troubled  his  neighbours  with 
his  elbows,  and  uttered  the  monosyllable  pish ! 
rather  oftener  than  good-breeding  and  a  due  def 
erence  to  the  opinions  of  others  seemed  to  justify. 
As  soon  as  he  seated  himself  at  table,  he  breathed 
into  his  tumbler,  and  wiped  it  out  with  a  napkin  ; 
then  wiped  his  plate,  his  spoon,  his  knife  and  fork 
in  succession,  and  each  with  great  care.  After  this 
he  placed  the  napkin  under  his  chin ;  and  these 
preparations  being  completed,  gave  full  swing  to  an 
appetite  which  was  not  inappropriately  denom 
inated,  by  one  of  our  guests,  "  unc  faim  canine" 

The  old  gentleman's  weak  side  was  an  affecta 
tion  of  youth  and  gallantry.  Though  "written 


TIIE   SEXAGENARIAN.  67 

down  old,  with  all  the  characters  of  age,"  yet  at 
times  he  seemed  to  think  himself  in  the  hey-day  of 
life;  and  the  assiduous  court  he  paid  to  a  fair 
countess,  who  was  passing  the  summer  at  the  mai- 
son  de  sante,  was  the  source  of  no  little  merriment 
to  all  but  himself.  He  loved,  too,  to  recall  the 
golden  age  of  his  amours ;  and  would  discourse 
with  prolix  eloquence,  and  a  faint  twinkle  in  his 
watery  eye,  of  his  bonnes  fortunes  in  times  of  old, 
and  the  rigors  that  many  a  fair  dame  had  suffered 
on  his  account.  Indeed,  his  chief  pride  seemed  to 
be  to  make  his  hearers  believe  that  he  had  been  a 
dangerous  man  in  his  youth,  and  was  not  yet  quite 
safe. 

As  I  also  was  a  peripatetic  of  the  garden,  we  en 
countered  each  other  at  every  turn.  At  first  our 
conversation  was  limited  to  the  usual  salutations  of 
the  day ;  but  ere  long  our  casual  acquaintance  ri 
pened  into  a  kind  of  intimacy.  Step  by  step  I  won 
my  way, — first  into  his  society, — then  into  his 
snuff-box, — and  then  into  his  heart.  He  was  a 
great  talker,  and  he  found  in  me  what  he  found  in 
no  other  inmate  of  the  house, — a  good  listener,  who 
never  interrupted  his  long  stories,  nor  contradicted 
his  opinions.  So  he  talked  down  one  alley  and  up 
another, — from  breakfast  till  dinner, — from  dinner 
till  midnight, — at  all  times  and  in  all  places,  when 
he  could  catch  me  by  the  button,  till  at  last  he  had 
confided  to  my  ear  all  the  important  and  unimpor 
tant  events  of  a  life  of  sixty  years. 

Monsieur  D'Argentville  was  a  shoot    from    a 


68  THE   SEXAGENARIAN. 

wealthy  family  of  Nantes.  Just  before  the  Revolu 
tion,  he  went  up  to  Paris  to  study  law  at  the  Uni 
versity,  and,  like  many  other  wealthy  scholars  of 
his  age,  was  soon  involved  in  the  intrigues  and  dis 
sipation  of  the  metropolis.  He  first  established 
himself  in  the  Hue  de  1'Universitd  ;  but  a  roguish 
pair  of  eyes  at  an  opposite  window  soon  drove 
from  the  field  such  heavy  tacticians  as  Hugucs 
Doneau  and  Gui  Coquille.  A  flirtation  was  com 
menced  in  due  form ;  and  a  flag  of  truce,  offering 
to  capitulate,  was  sent  in  the  shape  of  a  billet-doux. 
In  the  mean  time  he  regularly  amused  his  leisure 
hours  by  blowing  kisses  across  the  street  with  an 
old  pair  of  bellows.  One  afternoon,  as  he  was  oc 
cupied  in  this  way,  a  tall  gentleman  with  whiskers 
stepped  into  the  room,  just  as  he  had  charged  the 
bellows  to  the  muzzle.  He  muttered  something 
about  an  explanation, — his  sister, — marriage, — and 
the  satisfaction  of  a  gentleman  !  Perhaps  there  is 
no  situation  in  life  so  awkward  to  a  man  of  real 
sensibility  as  that  of  being  awed  into  matrimony  or 
a  duel  by  the  whiskers  of  a  tall  brother.  There 
was  but  one  alternative ;  and  the  next  morning  a 
placard  at  the  window  of  the  Bachelor  of  Love, 
with  the  words  "Furnished  Apartment  to  let," 
showed  that  the  former  occupant  had  found  it  con 
venient  to  change  lodgings. 

He  next  appeared  in  the  Chausse'e-d'Antin,  where 
he  assiduously  prepared  himself  for  future  exigen 
cies  by  a  course  of  daily  lessons  in  the  use  of  the 
Binall-sword.  lie  soon  after  quarrelled  with  his 


THE   SEXAGENARIAN.  69 

best  fhend,  about  a  little  actress  on  the  Boulevard, 
and  had  the  satisfaction  of  being  jilted,  and  then 
run  through  the  body  at.  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 
This  gave  Ifim  new  eclat  in  the  fashionable  world, 
and  consequently  he  pursued  pleasure  with  a  keener 
relish  than  ever.  He  next  had  the  grande  passion, 
and  narrowly  escaped  marrying  an  heiress  of  great 
expectations,  and  a  countless  number  of  chateaux. 
Just  before  the  catastrophe,  however,  he  had  the 
good  fortune  to  discover  that  the  lady's  expecta 
tions  were  limited  to  his  own  pocket,  and  that, 
as  for  her  chateaux,  they  were  all  Chateaux  en 
Espagne. 

About  this  time  his  father  died  ;  and  the  hopeful 
son  was  hardly  well  established  in  his  inheritance, 
when  the  Revolution  broke  out.  Unfortunately, 
he  was  a  firm  upholder  of  the  divine  right  of 
kings,  and  had  the  honor  of  being  among  the  first 
of  the  proscribed.  He  narrowly  escaped  the  guil 
lotine  by  jumping  on  board  a  vessel  bound  for 
America,  and  arrived  at  Boston  with  only  a  few 
francs  in  his  pocket ;  but,  as  he  knew  how  to  ac 
commodate  himself  to  circumstances,  he  continued 
to  live  by  teaching  fencing  and  French,  and  keep 
ing  a  dancing-school  and  a  milliner. 

At  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons,  he  returned 
to  France ;  and  from  that  time  to  the  day  of  our 
acquaintance  had  been  engaged  in  a  series  of  vexa 
tious  lawsuits,  in  the  hope  of  recovering  a  portion 
of  his  property,  which  had  been  intrusted  to  a 
friend  for  safe  keeping  at  the  commencement  of 


70  THE    SEXAGENARIAN. 

the  Revolution.  His  friend,  however,  denied  all 
knowledge  of  the  transaction,  and  the  assignment 
was  very  difficult  to  prove.  Twelve  years  of  un 
successful  ligitation  had  completely  soured  the  old 
gentleman's  temper,  and  made  him  peevish  and 
misanthropic  ;  and  he  had  come  to  Auteuil  merely 
to  escape  the  noise  of  the  city,  and  to  brace  his 
shattered  nerves  with  pure  air  and  quiet  amuse 
ments.  There  he  idled  the  time  away,  sauntering 
about  the  garden  of  the  maison  de  sante,  talking  to 
himself  when  he  could  get  no  other  listener,  and 
occasionally  reinforcing  his  misanthropy  with  a 
dose  of  the  Maxims  of  La  Rochefoucauld,  or  a  visit 
to  the  scene  of  his  duel  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 

Poor  Monsieur  d'Argentville  !  What  a  miserable 
life  he  led, — or  rather  dragged  on,  from  day  to 
day  !  A  petulant,  broken-down  old  man,  who  had 
outlived  his  fortune,  and  his  friends,  and  his  hopes, 
— yea,  every  thing  but  the  sting  of  bad  passions  and 
the  recollection  of  a  life  ill-spent !  Whether  he 
still  walks  the  earth  or  slumbers  in  its  bosom,  I  know 
not;  but  a  lively  recollection  of  him  will  always 
mingle  with  my  reminiscences  of  Auteuil. 


FERE  LA  CHAISE. 


Our  fathers  find  their  graves  in  our  short  memories,  and  sadly 
tell  us  how  we  may  be  buried  in  our  survivors. 

Oblivion  is  not  to  be  hired.  The  greater  part  must  be  content 
to  be  as  though  they  had  not  been, — to  be  found  in  the  register 
of  God,  not  in  the  record  of  man- 

SIR  THOMAS  BROWN'S  URN  BURIAL. 


THE  cemetery  of  Pere  la  Chaise  Is  the  West 
minster  Abbey  of  Paris.  Both  are  the  dwellings 
of  the  dead ;  but  in  one  they  repose  in  green  alleys 
and  beneath  the  open  sky, — in  the  other  their 
resting-place  is  in  the  shadowy  aisle,  and  beneath 
the  dim  arches  of  an  ancient  abbey.  One  is  a 
temple  of  nature ;  the  other  a  temple  of  art.  In 
one,  the  soft  melancholy  of  the  scene  is  rendered 
still  more  touching  by  the  warble  of  birds  and  the 
shade  of  trees,  and  the  grave  receives  the  gentle 
visit  of  the  sunshine  and  the  shower :  in  the  other, 
no  sound  but  the  passing  footfall  breaks  the  silence 
of  the  place ;  the  twilight  steals  in  through  high 
and  dusky  windows  ;  and  the  damps  f  f  the  gloomy 
vault  lie  heavy  on  the  heart,  and  leave  their  stain 
upon  the  mouldering  tracery  of  the  tomb. 

Pdre  la  Chaise  stands  just  beyond  the  Barriere 
d'Aulney,  on  a  hill-side,  looking  towards  the  city. 


72  PEUE    LA    CHAISE. 

Numerous  gravel-walks,  winding  through  shady 
avenues  and  between  marble  monuments,  lead  up 
from  the  principal  entrance  to  a  chapel  on  the 
summit.  There  if  hardly  a  grave  that  has  not  its 
little  inclosure  planted  with  shrubbery  ;  and  a  thick 
mass  of  foliage  half  conceals  each  funeral  stone. 
The  sighing  of  the  wind,  as  the  branches  rise  and 
fall  upon  it, — the  occasional  note  of  a  bird  among 
the  trees,  and  the  shifting  of  light  and  shade  upon 
the  tombs  beneath,  have  a  soothing  effect  upon  the 
mind ;  and  I  doubt  whether  any  one  can  enter  that 
inclosure,  where  repose  the  dust  and  ashes  of  so 
many  great  and  good  men,  without  feeling  the 
religion  of  the  place  steal  over  him,  and  seeing 
something  of  the  dark  and  gloomy  expression  pass 
oiT  from  the  stern  countenance  of  death. 

It  was  near  the  close  of  a  bright  summer  after 
noon  that  I  visited  this  celebrated  spot  for  the  first 
time.  The  first  object  that  arrested  my  attention, 
on  entering,  was  a  monument  in  the  form  of  a 
small  Gothic  chapel,  which  stands  near  the  en 
trance,  in  the  avenue  leading  to  the  right  hand. 
On  the  marble  couch  within  are  stretched  two 
figures,  carved  in  stone  and  dressed  in  the  antique 
garb  of  the  Middle  Ages.  It  is  the  tomb  of  Abe- 
lard  and  Hdloise.  \The  history  of  these  unfortunate 
lovers  is  too  well  Icnown  to  need  recapitulation ; 
but  perhaps  it  is  not  so  well  known  how  often  their 
ashes  were  disturbed  in  the  slumber  of  the  ^rave 

o 

Abelard  died  in  the  monastery  of  Saint  Marcel, 
and  was  buried  in  the  vaults  of  the  church.  Hia 


PEKE   LA   CHAISE.  73 

body  was  afterward  removed  to  the  convent  of  the 
Paraclet,  at  the  request  of  Helo'ise,  and  at  her 
death  her  body  was  deposited  in  the  same  tomb. 
Three  centuries  they  reposed  together  ;  after  which 
they  were  separated  to  different  sides  of  the  church, 
to  calm  the  delicate  scruples  of  the  lady-abbess 
of  the  convent.  More  than  a  century  afterward, 
they  were  again  united  in  the  same  tomb ;  and 
when  at  length  the  Paraclet  was  destroyed,  their 
mouldering  remains  Avere  transported  to  the  church 
of  Nogent-sur-Seine.  They  were  next  deposited  in 
an  ancient  cloister  at  Paris  ;  and  now  repose  near 
the  gateway  of  the  cemetery  of  Pere  la  Chaise. 
What  a  singular  destiny  was  theirs  !  that,  after  a 
life  of  such  passionate  and  disastrous  love, — such 
sorrows,  and  tears,  and  penitence, — their  very  dust 
should  not  be  suffered  to  rest  quietly  in  the  grave  ! 
— that  their  death  should  so  much  resemble  their 
life  in  its  changes  and  vicissitudes,  its  partings  and 
its  meetings,  its  inquietudes  and  its  persecutions ! 
that  mistaken  zeal  should  follow  them  down  to  the 
very  tomb, — as  if  earthly  passion  could  glimmer, 
like  a  funeral  lamp,  amid  the  damps  of  the  char- 
nel  house,  and  "even  in  their  ashes  burn  their 
wonted  fires ! " 

As  I  gazed  on  the  sculptured  forms  before  me, 
and  the  little  chapel,  whose  Gothic  roof  seemed  to 
protect  their  marble  sleep,  my  busy  memory  swung 
back  the  dark  portals  of  the  past,  and  the  picture  of 
their  sad  and  eventful  lives  came  up  before  me  in 
the  gloomy  distance.  What  a  lesson  for  those  who 


74  PERE   LA   CHAISE. 

arc  endowed  with  the  fatal  gift  of  genius !  It 
would  seem,  indeed,  that  He  who  "  tempers  the 
wind  to  the  shorn  lamb,"  tempers  also  his  chastise 
ments  to  the  errors  and  infirmities  of  a  weak  and 
simple  mind, — while  the  transgressions  of  him 
upon  whose  nature  are  more  strongly  marked  the 
intellectual  attributes  of  the  Deity  are  followed^ 
even  upon  earth,  by  severer  tokens  of  the  divine 
displeasure.  He  who  sins  in  the  darkness  of  a 
benighted  intellect  sees  not  so  clearly,  through 
the  shadows  that  surround  him,  the  countenance 
of  an  offended  God ;  but  he  who  sins  in  the  broad 
noonday  of  a  clear  and  radiant  mind,  when  at 
length  the  delirium  of  sensual  passion  has  subsided, 
and  the  cloud  flits  away  from  before  the  sun, 
trembles  beneath  the  searching  eye  of  that  accusing 
power  which  is  strong  in  the  strength  of  a  godlike 
intellect.  Thus  the  mind  and  the  heart  are  closely 
linked  together,  and  the  errors  of  genius  bear  with 
them  their  own  chastisement,  even  upon  earth. 
The  history  of  Abelard  and  Heloise  is  an  illustra 
tion  of  this  truth.  But  at  length  they  sleep  well. 
Their  lives  are  like  a  tale  that  is  told  ;  their  errors 
are  "  folded  up  like  a  book ; "  and  what  mortal 
hand  shall  break  the  seal  that  death  has  set  upon 
them? 

Leaving  this  interesting  tomb  behind  me,  I  took 
a  pathway  to  the  left,  which  conducted  me  up  the 
hill-side.  I  soon  found  myself  in  the  deep  shade 
of  heavy  foliage,  where  the  branches  of  the  yew 
and  willow  mingled,  interwoven  with  the  tendrils 


PERE   LA   CHAISE.  75 

and  blossoms  of  the  honeysuckle.  I  now  stood  in 
the  most  populous  part  of  this  city  of  tombs. 
Every  step  awakened  a  new  train  of  thrilling 
recollections;  for  at  every  step  my  eye  caught 
the  name  of  some  one  whose  glory  had  exalted 
the  character  of  his  native  land,  and  resounded 
across  the  waters  of  the  Atlantic.  Philosophers, 
historians,  musicians,  warriors,  and  poets  slept  side 
by  side  around  me ;  some  beneath  the  gorgeous 
monument,  and  some  beneath  the  simple  head 
stone.  But  the  political  intrigue,  the  dream  of 
science,  the  historical  research,  the  ravishing  har 
mony  of  sound,  the  tried  courage,  the  inspiration 
of  the  lyre, — where  are  they  ?  With  the  living, 
and  not  with  the  dead !  The  right  hand  has  lost 
its  cunning  in  the  grave ;  but  the  soul,  whose  high 
volitions  it  obeyed,  still  lives  to  reproduce  itself  in 
ages  yet  to  come. 

Among  these  graves  of  genius  I  observed  here 
and  there  a  splendid  monument,  which  had  been 
raised  by  the  pride  of  family  over  the  dust  of  men 
who  could  lay  no  claim  either  to  the  gratitude 
or  remembrance  of  posterity.  Their  presence 
seemed  like  an  intrusion  into  the  sanctuary  of 
genius.  What  had  wealth  to  do  there  ?  Why 
ehould  it  crowd  the  dust  of  the  great  ?  That  was  no 
thoroughfare  of  business, — no  mart  of  gain  !  There 
were  no  costly  banquets  there ;  no  silken  garments, 
nor  gaudy  liveries,  nor  obsequious  attendants ! 
"  What  servants,"  says  Jeremy  Taylor,  "  shall  we 
have  to  wait  upon  us  in  the  grave  ?  what  friends 


76  PEUE   LA    CIIAISE. 

to  ^isit  us?  what  officious  people  to  cleanse  away 
the  moist  and  unwholesome  cloud  reflected  upon 
3ur  faces  from  the  sides  of  the  weeping  vaults, 
which  are  the  longest  weepers  for  our  funerals  ?  n 
Material  wealth  gives  a  factitious  superiority  to  the 
living,  but  the  treasures  of  intellect  give  a  real 
superiority  to  the  dead;  and  the  rich  man,  who 
would  not  deign  to  walk  the  street  with  the  starv 
ing  and  penniless  man  of  genius,  deems  it  an 
honor,  when  death  has  redeemed  the  fame  of  the 
neglected,  to  have  his  own  ashes  laid  beside  him, 
and  to  claim  writh  him  the  silent  companionship 
of  the  grave. 

I  continued  my  walk  through  the  numerous 
winding  paths,  as  chance  or  curiosity  directed 
me.  Now  I  was  lost  in  a  little  green  hollow, 
overhung  with  thick-leaved  shrubbery,  and  then 
came  out  upon  an  elevation,  from  which,  through 
an  opening  in  the  trees,  the  eye  caught  glimpses 
of  the  city,  and  the  little  esplanade,  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill,  where  the  poor  lie  buried.  There 
poverty  hires  its  grave,  and  takes  but  a  short 
lease  of  the  narrow  house.  At  the  end  of  a  few 
months,  or  at  most  of  a  few  years,  the  tenant  ia 
dislodged  to  give  place  to  another,  and  ho  in  turn 
to  a  third.  "Who,"  says  Sir  Thomas  Browne, 
"  knows  the  fate  of  his  bones,  or  how  often  he  is  to 
be  buried  V  Who  hath  the  oracle  of  his  ashes,  or 
whither  they  are  to  be  scattered  ?  " 

Yet,  even  in  that  neglected  corner,  the  hand 
of  affection  had  been  busy  in  decorating  the  hired 


FERE    LA    CHAISE.  77 

house  Most  of  the  graves  were  surrounded  with 
a  slight  wooden  paling,  to  secure  them  from  the 
passing  footstep  ;  there  was  hardly  one  so  deserted 
as  not  to  be  marked  with  its  little  wooden  cross, 
and  decorated  with  a  garland  of  flowers ;  and 
here  and  there  I  could  perceive  a  solitary  mourner, 
clothed  in  black,  stooping  to  plant  a  shrub  on  the 
grave,  or  sitting  in  motionless  sorrow  beside  it. 

As  I  passed  on,  amid  the  shadowy  avenues 
of  the  cemetery,  I  could  not  help  comparing  my 
own  impressions  with  those  which  others  have 
felt  when  walking  alone  among  the  dwellings 
of  the  dead.  Are,  then,  the  sculptured  urn  and 
storied  monument  nothing  more  than  symbols  of 
family  pride  ?  Is  all  I  see  around  me  a  memorial 
.of  the  living  more  than  of  the  dead, — an  empty 
show  of  sorrow,  which  thus  vaunts  itself  in  mourn 
ful  pageant  and  funeral  parade  ?  Is  it  indeed 
true,  as  some  have  said,  that  the  simple  wild- 
flower,  which  springs  spontaneously  upon  the 
grave,  and  the  rose,  which  the  hand  of  affection 
plants  there,  are  fitter  objects  wherewith  to  adorn 
the  narrow  house  ?  No  !  I  feel  that  it  is  net  so ! 
Let  the  good  and  the  great  be  honored  even  in  the 
grave.  Let  tho  sculptured  marble  direct  our  foot 
steps  to  the  scene  of  their  long  sleep ;  let  the 
chiselled  epitaph  repeat  their  names,  and  tell  us 
where  repose  the  nobly  good  and  wise !  It  is  not 
true  that  all  are  equal  in  the  grave.  There  is  no 
equality  even  there.  The  mere  handful  of  dust 
and  ashes, — the  mere  distinction  of  prince  and 


78  FERE   LA   CIIAISK 

beggar,— of  a  rich  winding-sheet  and  a  shroudless 
burial, — of  a  solitary  grave  and  a  family  vault, — 
were  this  all, — then,  indeed,  it  would  be  true  that 
death  is  a  common  leveller.  Such  paltry  distinc 
tions  as  those  of  wealth  and  poverty  are  soon 
levelled  by  the  spade  and  mattock ;  the  damp 
breath  of  the  grave  blots  them  out  forever.  But 
there  are  other  distinctions  which  even  the  mace 
of  death  cannot  level  or  obliterate.  Can  it  break 
down  the  distinction  of  virtue  and  vice  ?  Can 
it  confound  the  good  with  the  bad?  the  noble 
with  the  base  ?  all  that  is  truly  great,  and  pure, 
and  godlike,  with  all  that  is  scorned,  and  sinful, 
and  degraded  ?  No !  Then  death  is  not  a  common 
leveller !  Are  all  alike  beloved  in  death  and 
honored  in  their  burial  ?  Is  that  ground  holy 
where  the  bloody  hand  of  the  murderer  sleeps 
from  crime  ?  Does  every  grave  awaken  the  same 
emotions  in  our  hearts  ?  and  do  the  footsteps  of  the 
stranger  pause  as  long  beside  each  funeral-stone  ? 
No  !  Then  all  are  not  equal  in  the  grave  !  And 
as  long  as  the  good  and  evil  deeds  of  men  live 
after  them,  so  long  will  there  be  distinctions  even 
in  the  grave.  The  superiority  of  one  over  another 
is  in  the  nobler  and  better  emotions  which  it  ex 
cites  ;  in  its-  more  fervent  admonitions  to  virtue ; 
in  the  livelier  recollection  which  it  awakens  of  the 
good  and  the  great,  whose  bodies  are  crumbling  to 
dust  beneath  our  feet ! 

If,  then,   there   are  distinctions  in   the  grave, 
purely  it  is  not  unwise  to  designate  them  by  the 


PERE   LA    CHAISE.  79 

external  marks  of  honor.  These  outward  appli 
ances  and  memorials  of  respect, — the  mournful 
urn, — the  sculptured  bust, — the  epitaph  eloquent 
in  praise, — cannot  indeed  create  these  distinctions, 
but  they  serve  to  mark  them.  It  is  only  when 
pride  or  wealth  builds  them  to  honor  the  slave 
of  mammon  or  the  slave  of  appetite,  when  the 
voice  from  the  grave  rebukes  the  false  and  pom 
pous  epitaph,  and  the  dust  and  ashes  of  the  tomb 
seem  struggling  to  maintain  the  superiority  of 
mere  worldly  rank,  and  to  carry  into  the  grave 
the  bawbles  of  earthly  vanity, — it  is  then,  and  then 
only,  that  we  feel  how  utterly  worthless  are  all  the 
devices  of  sculpture,  and  the  empty  pomp  of  monu 
mental  brass  ! 

After  rambling  leisurely  about  for  some  time, 
reading  the  inscriptions  on  the  various  monuments 
which  attracted  my  curiosity,  and  giving  way  to 
the  different  reflections  they  suggested,  I  sat  down 
to  rest  myself  on  a  sunken  tombstone.  A  winding 
gravel  walk,  overshaded  by  an  avenue  of  trees,  and 
lined  on  both  sides  with  richly  sculptured  monu 
ments.,  had  gradually  conducted  me  to  the  summit 
of  the  hill,  upon  whose  slope  the  cemetery  stands. 
Beneath  me  in  the  distance,  and  dim-discovered 
through  the  misty  and  smoky  atmosphere  of  even 
ing,  rose  the  countless  roofs  and  spires  of  the  city. 
Beyond,  throwing  his  level  rays  athwart  the  dusky 
landscape,  sank  the  broad  red  sun.  The  distant 
murmur  of  the  city  rose  upon  my  ear ;  and  the 
toll  of  the  evening  bell  came  up,  mingled  with 


80  FEKE   LA   CHAISE. 

the  rattle  of  the  paved  street  and  the  confused 
sounds  of  labor.  What  an  hour  for  meditation ! 
What  a  contrast  between  the  metropolis  of  the 
living  and  the  metropolis  of  the  dead !  I  could  not 
help  calling  to  my  mind  that  allegory  of  mortality, 
written  by  a  hand  which  has  been  many  a  long 
year  cold : — 

"  Earth  goeth  upon  earth  as  man  upon  mould, 

Like  as  earth  upon  earth  never  go  should, 

Earth  goeth  upon  earth  as  glistening  gold, 

And  yet  shall  earth  unto  earth  rather  than  he  wou!d. 

"  Lo,  earth  on  earth,  consider  thou  may, 
How  earth  cometh  to  earth  naked  alway, 
Why  shall  earth  upon  earth  go  stout  or  gay, 
Since  earth  out  of  earth  shall  pass  in  poor  array."  * 

•  I  subjoin  ibis  relic  of  old  English  verse  entire,  and  in  its  anti 
quated  language,  for  those  of  my  readers  who  may  have  an 
antiquarian  taste.  It  is  copied  from  a  book  whose  title  I  have 
forgotten,  and  of  which  I  have  but  a  single  leaf,  containing  the 
poem.  In  describing  the  antiquities  of  the  church  of  Stratford- 
upon-Avon,  the  writer  gives  the  following  account  of  a  very  old 
painting  upon  the  wall,  and  of  the  poem  which  served  as  its 
motto.  The  painting  is  no  longer  visble,  having  been  eflaccd  in 
repairing  the  church. 

"  Against  the  west  wall  of  tho  nave,  on  the  south  side  of  the 
arch,  was  painted  the  martyrdom  of  Thomas-a-Beckct,  while 
kneeling  at  the  altar  of  St.  Benedict  in  Canterbury  cathedral; 
below  this  was  the  figure  of  an  angel,  probably  St.  Michael,  sup 
porting  a  long  scroll,  upon  which  were  seven  stanzas  in  oli 
English,  being  an  allegory  of  mortality : — 

"Erthe  outo  of  Erthe  ys  wondurly  wroght 
Erth  hath  gotyn  uppon  crth  a  dygnyte  of  noght 
Erth  ypon  erth  hath  sett  all  hys  thowht 
How  erth  apon  erth  may  be  hey  browght 


PERE   LA   CHAISE.  81 

Before  I  left  the  graveyard  the  shades  of  even 
ing  had  fallen,  and  the  objects  around  me  grorni 
dim  and  indistinct  As  I  passed  the  gateway,  I 
turned  to  take  a  parting  look.  I  could  distinguish 
only  the  chapel  on  the  summit  of  the  hill,  and  here 


"  Erth  apon  erth  -wold  be  a  kyng 
But  how  that  erth  gott  to  erth  he  thyngkys  nothyng 
When  erth  byddys  erth  hys  rentys  whom  bryng 
Then  schall  erth  apon  erth  hare  a  hard  ptyng 

"  Erth  apon  erth  wynnys  castellys  and  towrys 
Then  seth  erth  unto  erth  thys  ys  all  owrya 
When  erth  apon  erth  hath  bylde  hys  bowrys 
Then  schall  erth  for  erth  suffur  many  hard  schowrys 

"  Erth  goth  apon  erth  as  man  apon  mowld 

Lyke  as  erth  apon  erth  never  goo  schold 

Erth  goth  apon  erth  as  gelsteryng  gold 

And  yet  schall  erth  unto  erth  rather  than  he  wold 

"  Why  that  erth  loveth  erth  wondur  me  thynke 
Or  why  that  erth  wold  for  erth  other  swett  or  swynke 
When  erth  apon  erth  ys  broght  wt.yn  the  brynke 
Then  scha'.l  erth  apon  erth  have  a  fowll  stynko 

"  Lo  erth  on  erth  consedur  thow  may 
How  erth  comyth  to  erth  nakyd  all  way 
Why  schall  erth  apon  erth  goo  stowte  or  gay 
Seth  erth  owt  of  erth  schall  passe  yn  poor  aray 

"  I  counsill  erth  apon  erth  that  ys  wondurly  wrogt 
The  whyl  yt.  erth  ys  apon  erth  to  torne  hys  thowht 
And  pray  to  god  apon  erth  yt.  all  erth  wroght 
That  all  crystyn  soullys  to  ye.  blys  may  be  broght 

"  Beneath  were  two  men,  holding  a  scroll  over  a  body  wrapped 
In  a  winding-sheet,  and  covered  with  some  emblems  of  mortality," 
&c. 

VOL.  I.  6 


82 


PERE    LA   CHAISE. 


and  there  a  lofty  obelisk  of  snow-white  marble, 
rising  from  the  black  and  heavy  mass  of  foliage 
around,  and  pointing  upward  to  the  gleam  of  the 
departed  sun,  that  still  lingered  in  the  sky,  and 
mingled  with  the  soft  starlight  of  a  summer  even 
ing. 


THE 

VALLEY  OF   THE   LOIRE. 

Je  ne  concois  qu'une  maniere  de  voyager  plus  agr&tble  que 
d'a'lcr  a  cheva! ;  c'est  d'a'ler  4  pied.  On  part  a  son  moment,  on 
I'arrete  a  sa  volontd,  on  fait  tant  et  si  peu  d'exercise  qu'on  veut. 

Quand  on  ne  veut  qu'arriver,  on  peut  courir  en  chaise  da 
poste ;  mais  quand  on  veut  voyager,  il  faut  aller  a  pied. 

ROUSSEAU. 

IN  the  beautiful  month  of  October,  I  made  a 
foot  excursion  along  the  banks  of  the  Loire,  from 
Orleans  to  Tours.  This  luxuriant  region  is  justly 
called  the  garden  of  France.  From  Orleans  to 
Blois,  the  whole  valley  of  the  Loire  is  one  continued 
vineyard.  The  bright  green  foliage  of  the  vine 
spreads,  like  the  undulations  of  the  sea,  over  all 
the  landscape,  with  here  and  there  a  silver  flash 
of  the  river,  a  sequestered  hamlet,  or  the  towers 
of  an  old  chateau,  to  enliven  and  variegate  the 
scene. 

The  vintage  had  already  commenced.  The 
peasantry  were  busy  in  the  fields, — the  song  that 
cheered  their  labor  was  on  the  breeze,  and  the 
heavy  wagon  tottered  by,  laden  with  the  clusters  of 
the  vine.  Every  thing  around  me  wore  that  happy 
look  which  makes  the  heart  glad.  In  the  morning 


84  THE    VALLEY   OF   THE   LOIRE. 

I  arose  with  the  lark ;  and  at  night  I  slept  where 
sunset  overtook  me.  The  healthy  exercise  of  foot- 
travelling,  the  pure,  bracing  air  of  autumn,  and 
the  cheerful  aspect  of  the  whole  landscape  about 
me,  gave  fresh  elasticity  to  a  mind  not  overbur- 
lened  with  care,  and  made  me  forget  not  only  the- 
fatigue  of  walking,  but  also  the  consciousness  of 
being  alone. 

My  first  day's  journey  brought  me  at  evening  to 
a  village,  whose  name  I  have  forgotten,  situated 
about  eight  leagues  from  Orleans.  It  is  a  small, 
obscure  hamlet,  not  mentioned  in  the  guide-book, 
and  stands  upon  the  precipitous  banks  of  a  deep 
ravine,  through  which  a  noisy  brook  leaps  down  to 
turn  the  ponderous  wheel  of  a  thatch-roofed  mill. 
The  village  inn  stands  upon  the  highway  ;  but  the 
village  itself  is  not  visible  to  the  traveller  as  he 
passes.  It  is  completely  hidden  in  the  lap  of  a 
wooded  valley,  and  so  embowered  in  trees  that  not 
a  roof  nor  a  chimney  peeps  out  to  betray  its  hiding- 
place.  It  is  like  the  nest  of  a  ground-swallow, 
which  the  passing  footstep  almost  treads  upon,  and 
yet  it  is  not  seen.  I  passed  by  without  suspecting 
that  a  village  was  near ;  and  the  little  inn  had  a 
look  so  uninviting  that  I  did  not  even  enter  it. 

After  proceeding  a  mile  or  two  farther,  I  per 
ceived,  upon  my  left,  a  village  spire  rising  over  tho 
vineyards.  Towards  this  I  directed  my  footsteps  ; 
but  it  seemed  to  recede  as  I  advanced,  and  at  last 
quite  disappeared.  It  was  evidently  many  miles 
distant;  and  as  the  path  I  followed  descended  from 


THE    VALLEY   OF   THE    LOIRE.  84 

the  high  Fay,  it  had  gradually  sunk  beneath  a  swell 
of  the  vine-clad  landscape.  I  now  found  myself  in 
the  midst  of  an  extensive  vineyard.  It  was  just 
sunset;  and  the  last  golden  rays  lingered  on  the 
rich  and  mellow  scenery  around  me.  The  peasantry 
were  still  busy  at  their  task;  and  the  occasional 
bark  of  a  dog,  and  the  distant  sound  of  an  evening 
bell,  gave  fresh  romance  to  the  scene.  The  reality 
of  many  a  daydream  of  childhood,  of  many  a 
poetic  revery  of  youth,  was  before  me.  I  stood  at 
sunset  amid  the  luxuriant  vineyards  of  France ! 

The  first  person  I  met  was  a  poor  old  woman,  a 
little  bowed  down  with  age,  gathering  grapes  into 
a  large  basket.  She  was  dressed  like  the  poorest 
class  of  peasantry,  and  pursued  her  solitary  task 
alone,  heedless  of  the  cheerful  gossip  and  the  merry 
laugh  which  came  from  a  band  of  more  youthful 
vintagers  at  a  short  distance  from  her.  She  was 
so  intently  engaged  in  her  work,  that  she  did  not 
perceive  my  approach  until  I  bade  her  good 
evening.  On  hearing  my  voice,  she  looked  up 
from  her  labor,  and  returned  the  salutation ;  and, 
on  my  asking  her  if  there  were  a  tavern  or  a  farm 
house  in  the  neighbourhood  where  I  could  pass  the 
night,  she  showed  me  the  pathway  through  the  vine 
yard  that  led  to  the  village,  and  then  added,  with 
a  look  of  curiosity, — 

"  You  must  be  a  stranger,  Sir,  in  these  parts." 

"  Yes ;  my  home  is  very  far  from  here." 

"  How  far  ?  " 

"  More  than  a  thousand  leagues." 


6G  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    LOIRE. 

The  old  woman  looked  incredulous. 

"  I  came  from  a  distant  land  beyond  the  sea.** 

"More  than  a  thousand  leagues!"  at  length  re 
peated  she ;  "  and  why  have  you  come  so  far  from 
home  ?  " 

"  To  travel ; — to  see  how  you  live  in  this  country." 

"  Have  you  no  relations  in  your  own  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  have  both  brothers  and  sisters,  a  father 
and " 

"  And  a  mother  ?  " 

"  Thank  Heaven,  I  have." 

"  And  did  you  leave  her  ?  " 

Here  the  old  woman  gave  me 'a  piercing  look  of 
reproof;  shook  her  head  mournfully,  and,  with  a 
deep  sigh,  as  if  some  painful  recollection  had  been 
awakened  in  her  bosom,  turned  again  to  her  soli 
tary  task.  I  felt  rebuked ;  for  there  is  something 
almost  prophetic  in  the  admonitions  of  the  old. 
The  eyo  of  age  looks  meekly  into  my  heart !  the 
voice  of  age  echoes  mournfully  through  it !  the 
hoary  head  and  palsied  hand  of  age  plead  ir 
resistibly  for  its  sympathies !  I  venerate  old  age ; 
and  I  love  not  the  man  who  can  look  without  emo 
tion  upon  the  sunset  of  life,  when  the  dusk  of 
evening  begins  to  gather  over  the  watery  eye,  and 
the  shadows  of  twilight  grow  broader  and  deeper 
upon  the  understanding ! 

I  pursued  the  pathway  which  led  towards  the 
village,  and  the  next  person  I  encountered  was  an 
old  man,  stretched  lazily  beneath  the  vines  upon  a 
little  strip  of  turf,  at  a  point  where  four  paths  met, 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    LOIRE.  87 

forming  a  cross  way  in  the  vineyard.  He  was  clad 
in  a  coarse  garb  of  gray,  with  a  pair  of  long  gaiters 
or  spatterdashes.  Beside  him  lay  a  blue  cloth  cap, 
a  staff,  and  an  old  weather-beaten  knapsack.  I 
saw  at  once  that  he  was  a  foot-traveller  like  myself, 
and  therefore,  without  more  ado,  entered  into  con 
versation  with  him.  From  his  language,  and  the 
peculiar  manner  in  which  he  now  and  then  wiped 
his  upper  lip  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  as  if  in 
search  of  the  mustache  which  was  no  longer  there, 
I  judged  that  he  had  been  a  soldier.  In  this  opin 
ion  I  was  not  mistaken.  He  had  served  under 
Napoleon,  and  had  followed  the  imperial  eagle 
across  the  Alps,  and  the  Pyrenees,  and  the  burning 
sands  of  Egypt.  Like  every  vieille  moustache,  he 
spake  with  enthusiasm  of  the  Little  Corporal,  and 
cursed  the  English,  the  Germans,  the  Spanish,  and 
every  other  race  on  earth,  except  the  Great 
Nation, — his  own.  "  I  like,"  said  he,  "  after  a  long 
day's  march,  to  lie  down  in  this  way  upon  the  grass, 
and  enjoy  the  cool  of  the  evening.  It  reminds  me 
of  the  bivouacs  of  other  days,  and  of  old  friends 
who  are  now  up  there." 

Here  he  pointed  with  his  finger  to  the  sky. 

"  They  have  reached  the  last  etape  before  me,  in 
the  long  march.  But  I  shall  go  soon.  We  shall 
all  meet  again  at  the  last  roll-call.  Sacre  nom 
de /  There's  a  tear  ! " 

He  wiped  it  away  with  his  sleeve. 

Here  our  colloquy  was  interrupted  by  the  ap 
proach  of  a  group  of  vintagers,  who  were  return- 


88  THE    VALLEY   OF    THE    LOIRE. 

ing  homeward  from  their  labor.  To  this  party  1 
joined  myself,  and  invited  the  old  soldier  to  do  the 
same ;  but  he  shook  his  head. 

"I  thank  you;  my  pathway  lies  in  a  different 
direction." 

"  But  there  is  no  other  village  near,  and  the  sun 
has  already  set." 

"  No  matter.  I  am  used  to  sleeping  on  the 
ground.  Good  night." 

I  left  the  old  man  to  his  meditations,  and  walked 
on  in  company  with  the  vintagers.  Following  a 
well-trodden  pathway  through  the  vineyards,  wo 
soon  descended  the  valley's  slope,  and  I  suddenly 
found  myself  in  the  bosom  of  one  of  those  little 
hamlets  from  which  the  laborer  rises  to  his  toil  as 
the  skylark  to  his  song.  My  companions  wished 
me  a  good  night,  as  each  entered  his  own  thatch- 
roofed  cottage,  and  a  little  girl  led  me  out  to  the 
very  inn  which  an  hour  or  two  before  I  had  dis 
dained  to  enter. 

When  I  awoke  in  the  morning,  a  brilliant  au 
tumnal  sun  was  shining  in  at  my  window.  The 
merry  song  of  birds  mingled  sweetly  with  the  sound 
of  rustling  leaves  and  the  gurgle  of  the  brook. 
The  vintagers  were  going  forth  to  their  toil;  the 
wine-press  was  busy  in  the  shade,  and  the  clatter 
of  the  mill  kept  time  to  the  miller's  song.  I  loitered 
about  the  village  with  a  feeling  of  calm  delight. 
I  was  unwilling  to  leave  the  seclusion  of  this 
sequestered  hamlet ;  but  at  length,  with  reluctant 
Btep,  I  took  the  cross-road  through  the  vineyard, 


THE   VALLEY    OF   THE   LOIRE.  89 

and  In  a  moment  the  little  village  had  sunk  again, 
as  if  by  enchantment,  into  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 

I  breakfasted  at  the  town  of  Mer ;  and,  leaving 
the  high-road  to  Blois  on  the  right,  passed  down  to 
the  banks  of  the  Loire,  through  a  long,  broad 
avenue  of  poplars  and  sycamores.  I  crossed  the 
river  in  a  boat,  and  in  the  after  part  of  the  day  I 
found  myself  before  the  high  and  massive  walls  of 
the  chateau  of  Chainbord.  This  chateau  is  one  of 
the  finest  specimens  of  the  ancient  Gothic  castle  to 
be  found  in  Europe.  The  little  River  Cosson  fills 
its  deep  and  ample  moat,  and  above  it  the  huge 
towers  and  heavy  battlements  rise  in  stern  and 
solemn  grandeur,  moss-grown  with  age,  and  black 
ened  by  the  storms  of  three  centuries.  Within,  all 
is  mournful  and  deserted.  The  grass  has  over 
grown  the  pavement  of  the  courtyard,  and  the 
rude  sculpture  upon  the  walls  is  broken  and  de 
faced.  From  the  courtyard  I  entered  the  central 
tower,  and,  ascending  the  principal  staircase,  went 
out  upon  the  battlements.  I  seemed  to  have  stepped 
back  into  the  precincts  of  the  feudal  ages ;  and, 
as  I  passed  along  through  echoing  corridors,  and 
vast,  deserted  halls,  stripped  of  their  furniture,  and 
mouldering  silently  away,  the  distant  past  came 
back  upon  me ;  and  the  times  when  the  clang  of 
arms,  and  the  tramp  of  mail-clad  men,  and  the 
sounds  of  music  and  revelry  and  wassail,  echoed 
along  those  high-vaulted  and  solitary  chambers ! 

My  third  day's  journey  brought  me  to  the  an 
cient  city  of  Blois,  the  chief  town  of  the  depart- 


90  THE    VALLEY    OF    THE    LOIRE. 

mcnt  of  Loire-et-Clier.  This  city  is  celebrated  for 
the  purity  with  which  even  the  lower  classes  of  its 
inhabitants  speak  their  native  tongue.  It  rises 
precipitously  from  the  northern  bank  of  the  Loire ; 
and  many  of  its  streets  are  so  steep  as  to  be  almost 
impassable  for  carriages.  On  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
overlooking  the  roofs  of  the  city,  and  commanding 
a  fine  view  of  the  Loire  and  its  noble  bridge,  and 
the  surrounding  country,  sprinkled  with  cottages 
and  chateaux,  runs  an  ample  terrace,  planted  with 
trees,  and  laid  out  as  a  public  walk.  The  view 
from  this  terrace  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  in 
France.  But  what  most  strikes  the  eye  of  the  trav 
eller  at  Blois  is  an  old,  though  still  unfinished, 
castle.  Its  huge  parapets  of  hewn  stone  stand  upon 
either  side  of  the  street ;  but  they  have  walled  up 
the  wide  gateway,  from  which  the  colossal  draw 
bridge  was  to  have  sprung  high  in  air,  connecting 
together  the  main  towers  of  the  building,  and  the 
two  hills  upon  whose  slope  its  foundations  stand. 
The  aspect  of  this  vast  pile  is  gloomy  and  desolate. 
It  seems  as  if  the  strong  hand  of  the  builder  had 
been  arrested  in  the  midst  of  his  task  by  the  stronger 
hand  of  death ;  and  the  unfinished  fabric  stands  a 
lasting  monument  both  of  the  power  and  weakness 
of  man, — of  his  vast  desires,  his  sanguine  hopes, 
his  ambitious  purposes, — and  of  the  unlooked-for 
conclusion,  where  all  these  desires,  and  hopes,  and 
purposes  are  so  often  arrested.  There  is  also  at 
Blois  another  ancient  chateau,  to  which  some 
historic  interest  is  attached,  as  being  the  scene  of 
the  massacre  of  the  Duke  of  Guise. 


THE   VALLEY   OF    THE    LOIRE.  91 

On  the  following  day,  I  left  Blois  for  Amboise ; 
and,  after  walking  several  leagues  along  the  dusty 
highway,  crossed  the  river  in  a  boat  to  the  little 
village  of  Moines,  which  lies  amid  luxuriant  vine 
yards  upon  the  southern  bank  of  the  Loire.  From 
Homes  to  Ambo\se  the  road  is  truly  delightful. 
The  rich  lowland,  scenery,  by  the  margin  of  the 
river,  is  verdant  even  in  October ;  and  occasionally 
the  landscape  is  diversified  with  the  picturesque 
cottages  of  the  vintagers,  cut  in  the  rock  along  the 
roadside,  and  cverhung  by  the  thick  foliage  of  the 
vines  above  thorn. 

At  Amboise  I  took  a  cross-road,  which  led  me  to 
the  romantic  borders  of  the  Cher  and  the  chateau 
of  Chenonceau.  This  beautiful  chateau,  as  well  as 
that  of  Chambord,  was  built  by  the  gay  and  munifi 
cent  Francis  the  First.  One  is  a  specimen  of 
strong  and  massive  architecture, — a  dwelling  for  a 
warrior ;  but  the  other  is  -of  a  lighter  and  more 
graceful  construction,  and  was  destined  for  those 
soft  languishments  of  passion  with  which  the  fasci 
nating  Diane  de  Poitiers  had  filled  the  bosom  of 
that  voluptuous  monarch. 

The  chateau  of  Chenonceau  is  built  upon  arches 
across  the  River  Cher,  whose  waters  are  made  to 
supply  the  deep  moat  at  each  extremity.  There  is 
a  spacious  courtyard  in  front,  from  which  a  draw 
bridge  conducts  to  the  outer  hall  of  the  castle. 
There  the  armor  of  Francis  the  First  still  hangs 
upon  the  wall, — his  shield,  and  helm,  and  lance, — 
as  if  the  chivalrous  but  dissolute  prince  had  just 


92  THE   VALLEY   OF   THE   LOIRE. 

exchanged  them  for  the  silken  robes  of  the  drawing- 
room.  From  this  hall  a  door  opens  into  a  long 
gallery,  extending  the  whole  length  of  the  building 
across  the  Cher.  The  walls  of  the  gallery  are 
hung  with  the  faded  portraits  of  the  long  line  of 
the  descendants  of  Hugh  Capet ;  and  the  windows, 
looking  up  and  down  the  stream,  command  a  fino 
reach  of  pleasant  river  scenery.  This  is  said  to  be 
the  only  chateau  in  France  in  which  the  ancient 
furniture  of  its  original  age  is  preserved.  In  one 
part  of  the  building,  you  are  shown  the  bed 
chamber  of  Diane  de  Poitiers,  with  its  antique 
chairs  covered  with  faded  damask  and  embroidery, 
her  bed,  and  a  portrait  of  the  royal  favorite  hang 
ing  over  the  mantelpiece.  In  another  you  seo  the 
apartment  of  the  infamous  Catherine  de'  Medici ; 
a  venerable  arm-chair  and  an  autograph  letter  of 
Henry  the  Fourth;  and  in  an  old  laboratory, 
among  broken  crucibles,  and  neckless  retorts,  and 
drums,  and  trumpets,  and  skins  of  wild  beasts,  and 
other  ancient  lumber  of  various  kinds,  are  to  bo 
seen  the  bed-posts  of  Francis  the  First.  Doubtless 
the  naked  walls  and  the  vast  solitary  chambers  of 
an  old  and  desolate  chateau  inspire  a  feeling  of 
greater  solemnity  and  awe ;  but  when  the  antique 
furniture  of  the  olden  time  remains, — the  faded 
tapestry  on  the  walls,  and  the  arm-chair  by  the 
fireside, — the  effect  upon  the  mind  is  more  magical 
and  delightful.  The  old  inhabitants  of  the  place, 
long  gathered  to  their  fathers,  though  living  still  in 
history,  seem  to  have  left  their  halls  for  the  chase 


THE    VALLEY   OF    TIIE   LOIRE.  93 

or  the  tournament ;  and  as  the  heavy  door  swings 
upon  its  reluctant  hinge,  one  almost  expects  to  see 
the  gallant  princes  and  courtly  dames  enter  those 
halls  again,  and  sweep  in  stately  procession  along 
the  silent  corridors. 

Rapt  in  such  fancies  as  these,  and  gazing  on 
the  beauties  of  this  noble  edifice,  and  the  soft 
scenery  around  it,  I  lingered,  unwilling  to  depart, 
till  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  streaming  through 
the  dusty  windows,  admonished  me  that  the  day 
was  drawing  rapidly  to  a  close.  I  sallied  forth 
from  the  southern  gate  of  the  chateau,  and,  crossing 
the  broken  drawbridge,  pursued  a  pathway  along 
the  bank  of  the  river,  still  gazing  back  upon  those 
towering  walls,  now  bathed  in  the  rich  glow  of 
sunset,  till  a  turn  in  the  road  and  a  clump  of  wood 
land  at  length  shut  them  out  from  my  sight. 

A  short  time  after  candle-lighting,  I  reached  the 
little  tavern  of  the  Boule  d'Or,  a  few  leagues  from 
Tours,  where  I  passed  the  night.  The  following 
rrorning  was  lowering  and  sad.  A  veil  of  mist 
hung  over  the  landscape,  and  ever  and  anon  a 
heavy  shower  burst  from  the  overburdened  clouds, 
that  were  driving  by  before  a  high  and  piercing 
wind.  This  unpropitious  state  of  the  weather  de 
tained  me  until  noon,  when  a  cabriolet  for  Tours 
drove  up ;  and  taking  a  seat  within  it,  I  left  the 
hostess  of  the  Boule  d'Or  in  the  middle  of  a  long 
story  about  a  rich  countess,  who  always  alighted 
there  when  she  passed  that  way.  We  drove 
leisurely  along  through  a  beautiful  country,  till  at 


94  THE    VALLEY   OF    THE    LOIRE. 

length  we  came  to  the  brow  of  a  steep  hill,  which 
commands  a  fine  view  of  the  city  of  Tours  and  ita 
delightful  environs.  But  the  scene  was  shrouded 
by  the  heavy  drifting  mist,  through  which  I  could 
trace  but  indistinctly  the  graceful  sweep  of  the 
Loire,  and  the  spires  and  roofs  of  the  city  far 
below  me. 

The  city  of  Tours  and  the  delicious  plain  in 
which  it  lies,  have  been  too  often  described  by 
other  travellers  to  render  a  new  description,  from 
so  listless  a  pen  as  mine,  either  necessary  or  desir 
able.  After  a  sojourn  of  two  cloudy  and  melan 
choly  days,  I  set  out  on  my  return  to  Paris,  by  the 
way  of  Vendorne  and  Chartres.  I  stopped  a  few 
hours  at  the  former  place,  to  examine  the  ruins  of 
a  chateau  built  by  Jeanne  d'Albret,  mother  of 
Henry  the  Fourth.  It  stands  upon  the  summit  of 
a  high  and  precipitous  hill,  and  almost  overhangs 
the  town  beneath.  The  French  Revolution  has 
completed  the  ruin  that  time  had  already  begun  ; 
and  nothing  now  remains,  but  a  broken  and  crum 
bling  bastion,  and  here  and  there  a  solitary  tower 
dropping  slowly  to  decay.  In  one  of  these  is  the 
grave  of  Jeanne  d'Albret  A  marble  entablature 
in  the  wall  above  contains  the  inscription,  which  is 
nearly  effaced,  though  enough  still  remains  to  tell 
the  curious  traveller  that  there  lies  buried  the 
mother  of  the  "  Bon  Henri."  To  this  is  added  a 
prayer  that  the  repose  of  the  dead  may  be  re 
spected. 

Here  ended  my  foot  excursion.     The  object  of 


THE    VALLEY    OF    THE   LOIRE. 


95 


my  journey  was  accomplished  ;  and,  delighted  with 
this  short  ramble  through  the  valley  of  the  Loire, 
I  took  my  seat  in  the  diligence  for  Paris,  and  on 
the  following  day  was  again  swallowed  up  in  the 
crowds  of  the  metropolis,  like  a  drop  in  the  bosom 
of  the  sea. 


THE   TROUVfiRES 


Quant  recommence  et  revient  biaux  estez, 

Que  foille  et  flor  resplendit  par  boschage, 
Que  li  froiz  tanz  de  Thyyer  est  passez, 
Et  cil  oisel  chantent  en  lor  langage, 
Lors  chanterai 
Et  envoisiez  serai 

De  cuer  Terai. 

JAQUES  DE  Cmsox. 

THE  literature  of  France  is  peculiarly  rich  in 
poetry  of  the  olden  time.  "We  can  trace  up  the 
stream  of  song  until  it  is  lost  in  the  deepening 
shadows  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Even  there  it  is  not 
a  shallow  tinkling  rill ;  but  it  comes  like  a  moun 
tain  stream,  rushing  and  sounding  onward  through 
the  enchanted  regions  of  romance,  and  mingles  its 
voice  with  the  tramp  of  steeds  and  the  brazen 
sound  of  arms. 

The  glorious  reign  of  Charlemagne,*  at  the  close 

*  The  following  amusing  description  of  this  Restorer  of  Letters, 
as  his  biographers  call  him,  is  taken  from  the  fabulous  Chronicle 
of  John  Turpin,  Chap.  XX. 

"The  emperor  was  of  a  ruddy  complexion,  with  brown  hair; 
of  a  well  made,  handsome  form,  but  a  stern  visage.  His  height 
vras  about  eight  of  his  own  feet,  which  were  very  long.  He  was 
of  a  strong,  robust  make;  his  legs  and  thighs  very  stout,  and  his 
rinews  firm.  Ills  fkce  was  thirteen  inches  long ;  his  b«ird  a  palm ; 


THE    THOU  VERES.  97 

of  the  eighth  and  the  commencement  of  the  ninth 
century,  seems  to  have  breathed  a  spirit  of  learn 
ing  as  well  as  of  chivalry  throughout  all  France. 
The  monarch  established  schools  and  academies  in 
different  parts  of  his  realm,  and  took  delight  in  the 
society  and  conversation  of  learned  men.  It  is 
amusing  to  see  with  what  evident  self-satisfaction 
some  of  the  magi  whom  he  gathered  around  him 
speak  of  their  exertions  in  widening  the  sphere  of 
human  knowledge,  and  pouring  in  light  upon  the 
darkness  of  their  age.  "  For  some,"  says  Alcuin, 
the  director  of  the  school  of  St.  Martin  de  Tours, 
"  I  cause  the  honey  of  the  Holy  Scriptures  to  flow 
I  intoxicate  others '  with  the  old  wine  of  ancient 
history ;  these  I  nourish  with  the  fruits  of  grammar, 
gathered  by  my  own  hands ;  and  those  I  enlighten 
by  pointing  out  to  them  the  stars,  like  lamps  at 
tached  by  the  vaulted  ceiling  of  a  great  palace  ! " 

Besides  this  classic  erudition  of  the  schools,  the 
age  had  also  its  popular  literature.  Those  who 
were  untaught  in  scholastic  wisdom  were  learned 

his  nose  ha'f  a  palm ;  his  forehead  a  foot  over.  His  ]ion-like  eyes 
flashed  fire  like  carbuncles ;  his  eyebrows  were  half  a  palm  over. 
When  he  was  angry,  it  was  a  terror  to  look  upon  him.  He  re 
quired  eight  spans  for  his  girdle,  besides  what  hung  loose.  He 
ate  sparingly  of  bread;  but  a  whole  quarter  of  knib,  two  fowls, 
u  goose,  or  a  large  portion  of  pork ;  a  peacock,  a  crane,  or  a  whole 
hare.  He  drank  moderately  of  wine  and  water.  He  was  so 
strong,  that  he  could  at  a  single  blow  cleave  asunder  an  armed 
Boldier  on  horseback,  from  the  head  to  the  waist,  and  the  horse 
likewise.  He  easily  vaulted  over  four  horses  harnessed  together, 
and  could  raise  an  armed  man  from  the  ground  to  his  head,  as 
he  stood  erect  upon  his  band." 
YO»  i  7 


98  THE    TROUVK11ES. 

in  traditionary  lore;  for  they  had  their  ballads,  in 
which  were  described  the  valor  and  achievements 
of  the  early  kings  of  the  Franks.  These  ballads, 
of  which  a  collection  was  made  by  order  of  Charle 
magne,  animated  the  rude  soldier  as  he  rushed  to 
battle,  and  were  sung  in  the  midnight  bivouacs  of 
the  camp.  "  Perhaps  it  is  not  too  much  to  say," 
observes  the  literary  historian  Schlegcl,  "  that  wo 
have  still  in  our  possession,  if  not  the  original  lan 
guage  and  form,  at  least  the  substance,  of  many  of 
those  ancient  poems  which  were  collected  by  the 
orders  of  that  prince  ; — I  refer  to  the  Nibelungcn- 
lied,  and  the  collection  which  goes  by  the  name  of 
the  Heldenbuch." 

When  at  length  the  old  Tudesque  language, 
which  was  the  court  language  of  Charlemagne, 
had  given  place  to  the  Langue  d'Oil,  the  northern 
dialect  of  the  French  Romance,  these  ancient  bal 
lads  passed  from  the  memories  of  the  descendants 
of  the  Franks,  and  were  succeeded  by  the  romances 
of  Charlemagne  and  his  Twelve  Peers, — of  Row 
land,  and  Olivir,  and  the  other  paladins  who  died 
at  Ronccsvalles.  Robert  "\Vace,  a  Norman  Trou- 
vcre  of  the  twelfth  century,  says  in  one  of  his  poems, 
that  a  minstrel  named  Taillefer,  mounted  on  a 
swift  horse,  went  in  front  of  the  Norman  army  at 
the  battle  of  Hastings,  singing  these  ancient  poems. 

These  Chansons  de  Geste,  or  old  historic  romances 
of  France,  are  epic  in  their  character,  though,  with 
out  doubt,  they  were  written  to  be  chanted  to  the 
sound  of  an  instrument  To  what  period  many  of 


THE   TROUVERES.  99 

them  l)r Jong,  In  their  present  form,  has  never  yet 
been  fully  determined ;  and  should  it  finally  be 
proved  by  philological  research  that  they  can  claim 
no  higher  antiquity  than  the  twelfth  or  thirteenth 
century,  still  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  in  their 
original  form  many  of  them  reached  far  back  into 
the  ninth  or  tenth.  The  long  prevalent  theory, 
that  the  romances  of  the  Twelve  Peers  of  France 
all  originated  in  the  fabulous  chronicle  of  Charle 
magne  and  Rowland,  written  by  the  Archbishop 
Turpin  in  the  twelfth  century,  if  not  as  yet  gener 
ally  exploded,  is,  nevertheless,  fast  losing  ground. 

To  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries  also  be 
long  most  of  the  Fabliaux,  or  metrical  tales  of  the 
Trouveres.  Many  of  these  compositions  are  re-' 
markable  for  the  inventive  talent  they  display,  but 
as  poems  they  have,  generally  speaking,  little  merit, 
and  at  times  exhibit  such  a  want  of  refinement, 
such  open  and  gross  obscenity,  as  to  be  highly 
offensive. 

It  is  a  remarkable  circumstance  in  the  literary 
history  of  France,  that,  while  her  antiquarians  and 
scholars  have  devoted  themselves  to  collecting  and 
illustrating  the  poetry  of  the  Troubadours,  the  early 
lyric  poets  of  the  South,  that  of  the  Trouveres,  or 
Troubadours  of  the  North,  has  been  almost  entirely 
neglected.  By  a  singular  fatality,  too,  what  little 
time  and  attention  have  hitherto  been  bestowed 
upon  the  fathers  of  French  poetry  have  been  so 
directed  as  to  save  from  oblivion  little  of  the  most 
valuable  portions  of  their  writings  ;  while  the  more 


100  THE    TROUVERES. 

tedious  and  worthless  parts  have  been  brought  forth 
to  the  public  eye,  as  if  to  deaden  curiosity,  and  put 
an  end  to  further  research.  The  ancient  historic 
romances  of  the  land  have,  for  the  most  part,  been 
left  to  slumber  unnoticed  ;  while  the  obscene  and 
tiresome  Fabliaux  have  been  ushered  into  the 
world  as  fair  specimens  of  the  ancient  poetry  of 
France.  This  has  created  unjust  prejudices  in  the 
minds  of  many  against  the  literature  of  the  olden 
time,  and  has  led  them  to  regard  it  as  nothing  more 
than  a  confused  mass  of  coarse  and  vulgar  fictions, 
adapted  to  a  rude  and  inelegant  state  of  society. 

Of  late,  however,  a  more  discerning  judgment 
has  been  brought  to  the  diflicult  task  of  ancient 
research  ;  and,  in  consequence  of  this,  the  long- 
established  prejudices  against  the  crumbling  monu 
ments  of  the  national  literature  of  France  during 
the  Middle  Ages  is  fast  disappearing.  Several 
learned  men  are  engaged  in  rescuing  from  obliv 
ion  the  ancient  poetic  romances  of  Charlemagne 
and  the  Twelve  Peers  of  France,  and  their  labors 
seem  destined  to  throw  new  light,  not  only  upon 
the  state  of  literature,  but  upon  the  state  of  society, 
during  the  twekth  and  thirteenth  centuries. 

Among  the  voluminous  remains  of  Troubadour 
literature,  little  else  has  yet  been  discovered  than 
poems  of  a  lyric  character.  The  lyre  of  the  Trou 
badour  seems  to  have  responded  to  the  impulse  of 
momentary  feelings  only, — to  the  touch  of  local 
and  transitory  circumstances.  Ilis  song  was  a  sud 
den  burst  of  excited  feeling  ; — it  ceased  when  the 


THE   TKOUVERfesi  101 

passion  was  subdued,  or  rather  when  its  first  fever 
ish  excitement  passed  away ;  and  as  the  liveliest 
feelings  are  the  most  transitory,  the  songs  which 
embodied  them  are  short,  but  full  of  spirit  and 
energy.  On  the  other  hand,  the  great  mass  of  the 
poetry  of  the  Trouveres  is  of  a  narrative  or  epic 
character.  The  genius  of  the  North  seems  always 
to  have  delighted  in  romantic  fiction ;  and  whether 
we  attribute  the  origin  of  modern  romance  to  the 
Arabians  or  to  the  Scandinavians,  this  at  least  is 
certain,  that  there  existed  marvellous  tales  in  the 
Northern  languages,  and  from  these,  in  part  at 
least,  the  Trouveres  imbibed  the  spirit  of  narrative 
poetry.  There  are  no  traces  of  lyric  compositions 
among  their  writings,  till  about  the  commencement 
of  the  thirteenth  century ;  and  it  seems  probable 
that  the  spirit  of  song-writing  was  imbibed  from 
the  Troubadours  of  the  South. 

Unfortunately,  the  neglect  which  has  so  long  at 
tended  the  old  historic  and  heroic  romances  of  the 
North  of  France  has  also  befallen  in  some  degree 
its  early  lyric  poetry.  Little  has  yet  been  done  to 
discover  and  bring  forth  its  riches;  and  doubtless' 
many  a  sweet  little  ballad  and  melancholy  com 
plaint  lies  buried  in  the  dust  of  the  thirteenth  cen 
tury.  It  is  not,  however,  my  object,  in  this  paper, 
to  give  a  historical  sketch  of  this  ancient  and  almost 
forgotten  poetry,  but  simply  to  bring  forward  a  few 
specimens  which  shall  exhibit  its  most  striking  and 
obvious  characteristics. 

In  these  examples  it  would  be  in  vain  to  looV  fo* 


102  THE    TKOUVfiRES. 

high-wrought  expression  suited  to  the  prevailing 
taste  of  the  present  day.  Their  most  striking 
peculiarity,  and  perhaps  their  greatest  merit,  con 
sists  in  the  simple  and  direct  expression  of  feeling 
which  they  contain.  This  feeling,  too,  is  one  which 
oreathes  the  languor  of  that  submissive  homage 
which  was  paid  to  beauty  in  the  days  of  chivalry ; 
and  I  am  aware,  that,  in  this  age  of  masculine  and 
matter-of-fact  thinking,  the  love-conceits  of  a  more 
poetic  state  of  society  are  generally  looked  upon  as 
extremely  trivial  and  puerile.  Nevertheless,  I  shall 
venture  to  present  one  or  two  of  these  simple  bal 
lads,  which,  by  recalling  the  distant  age  wherein 
they  were  composed,  may  peradventure  please  by 
the  power  of  contrast. 

I  have  just  remarked  that  one  of  the  greatest 
beauties  of  these  ancient  ditties  is  naivete'  of  thought 
and  simplicity  of  expression.  These  I  shall  endeav 
our  to  preserve  as  far  as  possible  in  the  translation, 
though  I  am  fully  conscious  how  much  the  sparkling 
beauty  of  an  original  loses  in  being  filtered  through 
the  idioms  of  a  foreign  language. 

The  favorite  theme  of  the  ancient  lyric  poets  ol 
the  North  of  France  is  the  wayward  passion  of  love. 
They  all  delight  to  sing  "  les  douces  dolors  et  li  mal 
plaisant  de  Jine  amor"  With  such  feelings  the 
beauties  of  the  opening  spring  are  naturally  asso 
ciated.  Almost  every  love-ditty  of  the  old  poetd 
commences  with  some  such  exordium  as  this: — 
"  When  the  snows  of  winter  have  passed  away, 
when  the  soft  and  gentle  spring  returns,  and  the 


THE    TttOUVKRES.  103 

flower  and  leaf  shoot  in  the  groves,  and  the  little 
birds  warble  to  their  mates  in  their  own  sweet  lan 
guage, — then  will  I  sing  my  lady-love  ! " 

Another  favorite  introduction  to  these  little 
rhapsodies  of  romantic  passion  is  the  approach  of 
morning  and  its  sweet-voiced  herald,  the  lark.  The 
minstrel's  song  to  his  lady-love  frequently  com 
mences  with  an  allusion  to  the  hour 

"  When  the  rose-bud  opens  its  een, 
And  the  bluebells  droop  and  die, 

And  upon  the  leaves  so  green 
Sparkling  dew-drops  lie." 

The  following  is  at  once  the  simplest  and  pret 
tiest  piece  of  this  kind  which  I  have  met  with 
among  the  early  lyric  poets  of  the  North  of  France. 
It  is  taken  from  an  anonymous  poem,  entitled 
"  The  Paradise  of  Love."  A  lover,  having  passed 
the  "  livelong  night  in  tears,  as  he  was  wont,"  goe* 
forth  to  beguile  his  sorrows  with  the  fragrance  and 
beauty  of  morning.  The  carol  of  the  vaulting 
skylark  salutes  his  ear,  and  to  this  merry  musician 
He  makes  his  complaint. 

Hark!  hark! 

Pretty  lark ! 

Little  heedest  thou  my  pain ! 
But  if  to  these  longing  arms 
Pitying  Love  would  yield  the  charms 

Of  the  fair 

With  smiling  air, 
Blithe  would  beat  my  heart  again. 


104  THE   TROUV&RE8. 

Hark!  hark! 

Pretty  lark ! 

Little  heedest  thou  my  pain ! 
Love  may  force  me  still  to  bear, 
While  he  lists,  consuming  care; 

But  in  anguish 

Though  I  languish, 
Faithful  shall  my  heart  remain. 

Hark!  hark! 

Pretty  lark ! 

Little  heedest  thou  my  pain ! 
Then  cease,  Love,  to  torment  me  so; 
But  rather  than  all  thoughts  forego 

Of  the  fair 

With  flaxen  hair, 
Give  me  back  her  frowns  again. 

Hark!  hark! 
Pretty  lark ! 
Little  heedest  thou  my  pain ! 

Besides  the  "  woful  ballad  made  to  his  mistress's 
eyebrow,"  the  early  lyric  poet  frequently  indulges 
in  more  calmly  analyzing  the  philosophy  of  love, 
or  in  questioning  the  object  and  destination  of  a 
sigh.  Occasionally  these  quaint  conceits  arc  pret 
tily  expressed,  and  the  little  song  flutters  through 
the  page  like  a  butterfly.  The  following  is  an 
example. 

And  whither  goest  thou,  gentle  sigh, 
Breathed  so  softly  in  my  ear  '{ 
Say,  dost  thou  bear  his  fate  severe 

To  Love's  poor  martyr  doomed  to  die  ? 


THE    THOU  VERES.  105 

Come,  tell  me  quickly, — do  not  lie ; 

What  secret  message  bring'st  thou  here? 
And  whither  goest  thou,  gentle  sigh, 

Breathed  so  softly  in  my  car  V 

May  Heaven  conduct  thee  to  thy  will, 
And  safely  speed  thee  on  thy  way; 
This  only  I  would  humbly  pray, — 

Pierce  deep, — but,  0 !  forbear  to  kill. 

And  whither  goest  thou,  gentle  sigh, 
Breathed  so  softly  in  my  ear  ? 

The  ancient  lyric  poets  of  France  are  generally 
spoken  of  as  a  class,  and  their  beauties  and  defects 
referred  to  them  collectively,  and  not  individually. 
In  truth,  there  are  few  characteristic  marks  by 
•which  any  individual  author  can  be  singled  out  and 
ranked  above  the  rest.  The  lyric  poets  of  the 
thirteenth  and  fourteenth  centuries  stand  upon 
nearly  the  same  level.  But  in  the  fifteenth  century 
there  were  two  who  surpassed  all  their  contempo 
raries  in  the  beauty  and  delicacy  of  their  sentiments ; 
and  in  £he  sweetness  of  their  diction,  and  the 
structure  of  their  verse,  stand  far  in  advance  of  the 
age  in  which  they  lived.  These  are  Charles  d' Or 
gans  and  Clotilde  do  Surville. 

Charles,  Duke  of  Orleans,  the  father  of  Louis  the 
Twelfth,  and  uncle  of  Francis  the  First,  was  born 
in  1391.  In  the  general  tenor  of  his  life,  the  pe 
culiar  character  of  his  mind,  and  his  talent  for 
poetry,  there  is  a  striking  resemblance  between 
this  noble  poet  and  James  the  First  of  Scotland, 
his  contemporary.  Both  were  remarkable  ^  for- 


106  THE    TROUVERE8. 

learning  and  refinement ;  both  passed  a  great  por 
tion  of  their  lives  in  sorrow  and  imprisonment; 
and  both  cheered  the  solitude  of  their  prison-walls 
with  the  charms  of  poetry.  Charles  d'Orlc'ans  was 
taken  prisoner  at  the  battle  of  Agincourt,  in  1415, 
and  carried  into  England,  where  he  remained 
twenty-five  years  in  captivity.  It  was  there  that 
he  composed  the  greater  part  of  his  poetry. 

The  poems  of  this  writer  exhibit  a  singular  deli 
cacy  of  thought  and  sweetness  of  expression.  The 
following  little  Renouveaux,  or  songs  on  the  return 
of  spring,  are  full  of  delicacy  and  beauty. 

Now  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 
Of  crmined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rain, 
And  clothes  him  in  the  embroidery 
Of  glittering  sun  and  clear  blue  sky. 

With  beast  and  bird  the  forest  rings, 
Each  in  his  jargon  cries  or  sings ; 
And  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 
Of  ermined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rain. 

River,  and  fount,  and  tinkling  brook 

Wear  in  their  dainty  livery 

Drops  of  silver  jewelry ; 
In  new-made  suit  they  merry  look; 

And  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 

Of  ermined  frost,  and  wind,  and  rain. 

The  second  upon  the  same  subject  presents  8 
still  more  agreeable  picture  of  the  departure  of 
winter  and  the  return  of  spring. 


T1IE   TROUVERES.  107 

Gentle  spring ! — in  sunshine  clad, 

Well  dost  thou  thy  power  display  ! 
For  winter  maketh  the  light  heart  sad, 

And  thou, — thou  makest  the  sad  heart  gay. 
Ho  sees  thee,  and  calls  to  his  gloomy  train, 
The  sleet,  and  the  snow,  and  the  wind,  and  the  rain; 
And  they  shrink  away,  and  they  flee  in  fear, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Winter  givetli  the  fields  and  the  trees  so  old 

Their  beards  of  icicles  and  snow ; 
And  the  rain,  it  raineth  so  fast  and  cold, 

We  must  cower  over  the  embers  low ; 
And,  snugly  housed  from  the  wind  and  weather, 
Mope  like  birds  that  are  changing  feather. 
But  the  stonn  retires,  and  the  sky  grows  clear, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

Winter  maketh  the  sun  in  the  gloomy  sky 

Wrap  him  round  in  a  mantle  of  cloud ; 
But,  Heaven  be  praised,  thy  step  is  nigh ; 

Thou  tearest  away  the  mournful  shroud, 
And  the  earth  looks  bright, — and  winter  surly, 
Who  has  toiled  for  naught  both  late  and  early, 
Is  banished  afar  by  the  new-born  year, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near. 

The  only  person  of  that  age  who  can  dispute  the- 
laurel  with  Charles  d' Orleans  is  Clotilde  de  Sirr- 
ville.  This  poetess  was  born  in  the  Bas-Vivarais. 
in  the  year  1405.  Her  style  is  singularly  elegant 
and  correct;  and  the  reader  who  will  take  tho 
trouble  to  decipher  her  rude  provincial  orthography 
will  find  her  writings  full  of  quiet  beauty.  Tho 
following  lines,  which  breathe  the  very  soul  of 


108  THE    TROUVEKES. 

maternal  tenderness,  are  part  of  a  poem  to  her 
first-born. 

Sweet  babe!  true  portrait  of  thy  father's  face, 
Sleep  on  the  bosom  that  thy  lips  have  pressed! 

Sleep,  little  one;  and  closely,  gently  place 
Thy  drowsy  eyelid  on  thy  mother's  breast! 

Upon  that  tender  eye,  my  little  friend, 
Soft  sleep  shall  come  that  cometh  not  to  me ! 

I  watch  to  see  thee,  nourish  thee,  defend ; — 
'Tis  sweet  to  watch  for  thee, — alone  for  thee! 

His  arms  fall  down;  sleep  sits  upon  his  brow; 

His  eye  is  closed;  he  sleeps, — how  still  and  calm! 
Wore  not  his  cheek  the  apple's  ruddy  glow, 

Would  you  not  say  he  slept  on  death's  cold  arm? 

Awake,  my  boy!— I  tremble  with  affright! 

Awake,  and  chase  this  fatal  thought! — unclose 
Thine  eye  but  for  one  moment  on  the  light! 

Even  at  the  price  of  thine,  give  me  repose! 

Sweet  error! — he  but  slept; — I  breathe  again; — 
Come,  gentle  dreams,  the  hour  of  sleep  beguile! 

0,  when  shall  he  for  whom  I  sigh  in  vain 
Beside  mo  watch  to  see  thy  waking  smile? 


Bnt  upon  this  theme  I  have  'written  enough,  per 
haps  too  much. 

"  'This  may  be  poetry,  for  aught  I  know,1 

Says  an  old,  worthy  friend  of  mine,  while  leaning 


THE    TROUVERES.  109 

Over  my  shoulder  as  I  write, — 'although 
I  can't  exactly  comprehend  its  meaning.'  " 

I  have  touched  upon  the  subject  before  me  in  a 
brief  and  desultory  manner,  and  have  purposely 
left  my  remarks  unencumbered  by  learned  refer 
ence  and  far-sought  erudition  ;  for  these  are  orna 
ments  which  would  ill  become  so  trivial  a  pen  as 
this  wherewith  I  write,  though,  perchance,  the 
want  of  them  will  render  my  essay  unsatisfactory 
to  the  scholar  and  the  critic.  But  I  am  emboldened 
thus  to  skim  with  a  light  wing  over  this  poetic  lore 
of  the  past,  by  the  reflection,  that  the  greater  part 
of  my  readers  belong  not  to  that  grave  and  serious 
class  who  love  the  deep  wisdom  which  lies  in  quot 
ing  from  a  quaint,  forgotten  tome,  and  are  ready 
on  all  occasions  to  say,  "  Commend  me  to  the  owl  I " 


THE 

BAPTISM  OF   FIRE. 

The  more  you  mow  us  down,  the  thicker  we  rise;  the  Christian 
blood  you  spill  is  like  the  seed  you  sow,— it  springs  from  the  earth 
again  and  fructifies  the  more. 

T..RTCLUAX. 

As  day  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  the  rays  of 
the  setting  sun  climbed  slowly  up  the  dungeon  wall, 
the  prisoner  sat  and  read  in  a  tome  with  silver 
clasps.  lie  was  a  man  in  the  vigor  of  his  days, 
with  a  pale  and  noble  countenance,  that  wore  less 
the  marks  of  worldly  care  than  of  high  and  holy 
thought  His  temples  were  already  bald;  but  a 
thick  and  curling  beard  bespoke  the  strength  of 
manhood ;  and  his  eye,  dark,  full,  and  eloquent, 
beamed  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  a  martyr. 

The  book  before  him  was  a  volume  of  the  early 
Christian  Fathers.  He  was  reading  the  Apologetic, 
of  the  eloquent  Terttillian,  the  oldest  and  ablest 
writer  of  the  Latin  Church.  At  times  he  paused, 
and  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven  as  if  in  prayer,  and 
then  read  on  again  in  silence.  At  length  a  passage 
seemed  to  touch  his  inmost  soul.  He  read  aloud : — 

"  Give  us,  then,  what  names  you  please ;  from 
the  instruments  of  cruelty  you  torture  us  by,  call 
us  Sarmonlicians  and  Scmaxians,  because  you 


THE   BAPTISM    OF   FIRE.  Ill 

fasten  us  to  trunks  of  trees,  and  stick  us  about  with 
fagots  to  set  us  on  fire ;  yet  let  me  tell  you,  when 
we  are  thus  begirt  and  dressed  about  with  fire,  we 
are  then  in  our  most  illustrious  apparel.  These 
are  our  victorious  palms  and  robes  of  glory ;  and, 
mounted  on  our  funeral  pile,  we  look  upon  our- 
jelves  in  our  triumphal  chariot.  No  wonder,  then, 
such  passive  heroes  please  not  those  they  vanquish 
with  such  conquering  sufferings.  And  therefore 
we  pass  for  men  of  despair,  and  violently  bent  upon 
our  own  destruction.  However,  what  you  are 
pleased  to  call  madness  and  despair  in  us  are  the 
very  actions  which,  under  virtue's  standard,  lift  up 
your  sons  of  fame  and  glory,  and  emblazon  them  to 
future  ages." 

He  arose  and  paced  the  dungeon  to  and  fro,  with 
folded  arms  and  a  firm  step.  His  thoughts  held 
communion  with  eternity. 

"  Father  which  art  in  heaven  ! "  he  exclaimed, 
"  give  me  strength  to  die  like  those  holy  men  of  old, 
who  scorned  to  purchase  life  at  the  expense  of 
truth.  That  truth  has  made  me  free ;  and  though 
condemned  on  earth,  I  know  that  I  am  absolved  in 
Leaven ! " 

He  again  seated  himself  at  his  table,  and  read 
in  that  tome  with  silver  clasps. 

This  solitary  prisoner  was  Anne  Du  Bourg ;  a 
man  who  feared  not  man  ;  once  a  merciful  judge,  in 
that  august  tribunal  upon  whose  voice  hung  the  life 
and  death  of  those  who  were  persecuted  for  con 
science's  sake,  he  was  now  himself  an  accused,  a 


112  THE    BAPTISM    OF    FIRE. 

convicted  heretic,  condemned  to  the  baptism  of  life 
because  he  would  not  unrighteously  condemn 
others.  He  had  dared  to  plead  the  cause  of  suffer 
ing  humanity  before  that  dread  tribunal,  and,  iu 
the  presence  of  the  king  himself,  to  declare  that  it 
was  an  oflfence  to  the  majesty  of  God  to  shed  man's 
blood  in  his  name.  Six  weary  months, — fvoni  June 
to  December, — he  had  lain  a  prisoner  in  that  dun 
geon,  from  which  a  death  by  fire  was  soon  to  set 
him  free.  Such  was  the  clemency  of  Henry  the 
Second ! 

As  the  prisoner  read,  his  eyes  were  filled  with 
tears.  He  still  gazed  upon  the  printed  page,  but 
it  was  a  blank  before  his  eyes.  His  thoughts  were 
far  away  amid  the  scenes  of  his  childhood,  amid 
the  green  valleys  of  Riom  and  the  Golden  Moun 
tains  of  Auvergne.  Some  simple  word  had  called 
up  the  vision  of  the  past  He  was  a  child  again. 
He  was  playing  with  the  pebbles  of  the  brook, — he 
was  shouting  to  the  echo  of  the  hills, — he  was 
praying  at  his  mother's  knee,  with  his  little  hanili 
clasped  in  hers. 

This  dream  of  childhood  was  broken  by  the 
grating  of  bolts  and  bars,  as  the  jailer  opened  his 
prison-door.  A  moment  afterward,  his  former  col 
league,  De  Harley,  stood  at  his  side. 

"  Thou  here  ! "  exclaimed  the  prisoner,  surprised 
at  the  visit.     "  Thou  in  the  dungeon  of  a  heretic 
On  what  errand  hast  thou  come  ?  " 

"  On  an  errand  of  mercy,"  replied  De  Harley. 
"  I  come  to  tell  thee " 


THE   BAPTISM    OF    FIRE.  113 

"  That  the  hour  of  my  death  draws  near  ?  " 

"  That  thou  mayst  still  be  saved." 

"  Yes ;  if  I  will  bear  false  witness  against  my 
God, — barter  heaven  for  earth, — an  eternity  for  a 
few  brief  days  of  worldly  existence.  Lost,  thou 
shouldst  say, — lost,  not  saved ! " 

"  No  !  saved  !  "  cried  Do  Harlcy,  with  warmth ; 
"  saved  from  a  death  of  shame  and  an  eternity 
of  woe  !  Renounce  this  false  doctrine, — this  abom 
inable  heresy, — and  return  again  to  the  bosom  of 
the  church  which  thou  dost  rend  with  strife  and 
dissension." 

"  God  judge  between  thee  and  me,  which  has 
embraced  the  truth." 

"  His  hand  already  smites  thee." 

"  It  has  fallen  more  heavily  upon  those  who  so 
unjustly  persecute  me.  Where  is  the  king  ? — he 
who  said  that,  with  his  own  eyes,  he  would  behold 
me  perish  at  the  stake  ? — he  to  whom  the  undaunted 
Du  Faur  cried,  like  Elijah  to  Ahab,  '  It  is  thou 
who  troublest  Israel ! ' — Where  is  the  king  ?  Called, 
through  a  sudden  and  violent  death,  to  the  judg 
ment  seat  cf  Heaven ! — Where  is  Miuard,  the  per 
secutor  of  the  just?  Slain  by  the  hand  of  an 
assassin  !  It  was  not  without  reason  that  I  said  to 
him,  when  standing  before  my  accusers,  '  Tremble  ! 
believe  the  word  of  one  who  is  about  to  appear  be 
fore  God ;  thou  likewise  shalt  stand  there  soon, — 
thou  that  sheddest  the  blood  of  the  children  of 
peace.'  He  has  gone  to  his  account  before  me." 

"  And  that  menace  has  hastened  thine  own  con- 

VOL.  I.  8 


114  THE    BAPTISM     OF    FIHE. 

Jemnation.  Minard  was  slain  by  the  Huguenots, 
and  it  is  whispered  that  thou  wast  privy  to  his 
death." 

"  This,  at  least,  might  have  been  spared  a  dying 
man ! "  replied  the  prisoner,  much  agitated  by  so 
unjust  and  so  unexpected  an  accusation.  "  As  I 
hope  for  mercy  hereafter,  I  am  innocent  of  the 
blood  of  this  man,  and  of  all  knowledge  of  so  foul 
a  crime.  But,  tell  me,  hast  thou  come  here  only 
to  embitter  my  last  hours  with  such  an  accusation 
as  this  V  If  so,  I  pray  thec,  leave  me.  My  mo 
ments  are  precious.  I  would  be  alone." 

"  I  came  to  offer  thce  life,  freedom,  and  hap 
piness." 

"  Life, — freedom, — happiness !  At  the  price  thou 
hast  set  upon  them,  I  scorn  them  all !  Had  the 
apostles  and  martyrs  of  the  early  Christian  church 
listened  to  such  paltry  bribes  as  these,  where  were 
now  the  faith  in  which  we  trust  ?  These  holy  men 
of  old  shall  answer  for  me.  Hear  what  Justin 
Martyr  says,  in  his  earnest  appeal  to  Antouinc  the 
Pious,  in  behalf  of  the  Christians  who  in  his  day 
were  unjustly  loaded  with  public  odium  and  op 
pression." 

He  opened  the  volume  before  him  and  read : — 

"  I  could  wish  you  would  take  this  also  into  con 
sideration,  that  what  we  say  is  really  for  your  own 
good  ;  for  it  is  in  our  power  at  any  time  to  escape 
your  torments  by  denying  the  faith,  when  you 
question  us  about  it:  but  we  scorn  to  purchase 
life  at  the  expense  of  a  lie;  for  our  souls  are 


THE    BAPTISM    OF    FIRE.  115 

winded  with  a  desire  of  a  life  of  eternal  duration 

O 

and  purity,  of  an  immediate  conversation  with  God, 
the  Father  and  Maker  of  all  things.  We  are  in 
haste  to  be  confessing  and  finishing  our  faith ;  being 
fully  persuaded  that  we  shall  arrive  at  this  blessed 
state,  if  we  approve  ourselves  to  God  by  our  works, 
and  by  our  obedience  express  our  passion  for  that 
divine  life  which  is  never  interrupted  by  any  clash 
ing  evil." 

The  Catholic  and  the  Huguenot  reasoned  long 
and  earnestly  together  ;  but  they  reasoned  in  vain. 
Each  was  firm  in  his  belief;  and  they,  parted  to 
meet  no  more  on  earth. 

On  the  following  day,  Du  Bourg  was  summoned 
before  his  judges  to  receive  his  final  sentence.  He 
heard  it  unmoved,  and  with  a  prayer  to  God  that 
he  would  pardon  those  who  had  condemned  him 
according  to  their  consciences.  He  then  addressed 
his  judges  in  an  oration  full  of  power  and  eloquence. 
It  closed  with  these  words : — 

"  And  now,  ye  judges,  if,  indeed,  you  hold  the 
gword  of  God  as  ministers  of  his  wrath,  to  take 
vengeance  upon  those  who  do  evil,  beware,  I  charge 
you,  beware  how  you  condemn  us.  Consider  well 
•what  evil  we  have  done ;  and  before  all  things,  de 
cide  whether  it  be  just  that  we  should  listen  unto 
you  rather  than  unto  God.  Are  you  so  drunken 
with  the  wine-cup  of  the  great  sorceress,  that  you 
drink  poison  for  nourishment  ?  Are  you  not  those 
who  make  the  people  sin,  by  turning  them  away 
from  the  service  of  God  ?  And  if  you  regard 


116  THE     BAPTISM     OF    FittE. 

more  the  opinion  of  men  than  that  of  Heaven,  in 
what  esteem  are  you  held  by  other  nations,  and 
principalities,  and  powers,  for  the  martyrdoms  you 
have  caused  in  obedience  to  this  blood-stained 
Phalaris  ?  God  grant,  thou  cruel  tyrant,  that  by 
thy  miserable  death  thou  inayst  put  an  end  to  our 
groans ! 

"  Why  weep  ye  ?  What  means  this  delay  ?  Y  DOT 
hearts  are  heavy  within  you, — your  consciences 
are  haunted  by  the  judgment  of  God.  And  thus 
it  is  that  the  condemned  rejoice  in  the  fires  you 
have  kindled,  and  think  they  never  live  better 
than  in  the  midst  of  consuming  flames.  Torments 
affright  them  not, — insults  enfeeble  them  not ;  their 
honor  is  redeemed  by  death, — he  that  dies  is  the 
conqueror,  and  the  conquered  he  that  mourns. 

"  No  !  whatever  snares  arc  spread  for  us,  what 
ever  suffering  we  endure,  you  cannot  separate  us 
from  the  love  of  Christ.  Strike,  then, — slay, — grind 
us  to  powder  !  Those  that  die  in  the  Lord  shall  live 
again ;  we  shall  all  be  raised  together.  Condemn 
me  as  you  will, — I  am  a  Christian ;  yes,  I  am  a 
Christian,  and  am  ready  to  die  for  the  gloiy  of  our 
Lord, — for  the  truth  of  the  Evangelists.' 

"  Quench,  then,  your  fires !  Let  the  wicked 
abandon  his  way,  and  return  unto  the  Lord,  and 
he  will  have  compassion  on  him.  Live, — be  hap 
py, — and  meditate  on  God,  ye  judges !  As  for  me, 
I  go  rejoicing  to  my  death.  What  wait  ye  for  ? 
Lead  me  to  the  scaffold  I  " 

They  bound  the  prisoner's  hands,  and,  leading 


THE     BAPTISM    OF    FIRE.  117 

mm  forth  from  the  council-chamber,  placed  him 
upon  the  cart  that  was  to  bear  him  to  the  Place  de 
Greve.  Before  and  behind  marched  a  guard  of 
five  hundred  soldiers  ;  for  Du  Bourg  was  beloved 
by  the  people,  and  a  popular  tumult  was  ap 
prehended.  The  day  was  overcast  and  sad ;  and 
ever  and  anon  the  sound  of  the  tolling  bell  mingled 
its  dismal  clang  with  the  solemn  notes  of  the  funeral 
march.  They  soon  reached  the  place  of  execution, 
which  was  already  filled  with  a  dense  and  silent 
crowd.  In  the  centre  stood  the  gallows,  with  a  pile 
of  fagots  beneath  it,  and  the  hangman  with  a  burn 
ing  torch  in  his  hand.  But  this  funeral  apparel 
inspired  no  terror  in  the  heart  of  Du  Bourg.  A 
look  of  triumph  beamed  from  his  eye,  and  his 
countenance  shone  like  that  of  an  angel.  With 
his  own  hands  he  divested  himself  of  his  outer 
garments,  and,  gazing  round  upon  the  breathless 
and  sympathizing  crowd,  exclaimed, — 

"  My  friends,  I  come  not  hither  as  a  thief  or  a 
murderer ;  but  it  is  for  the  Gospel's  sake  !  " 

A  cord  was  then  fastened  round  his  waist,  and 
he  was  drawn  up  into  the  air.  At  the  same  mo 
ment  the  burning  torch  of  the  executioner  was  ap 
plied  to  the  fagots  beneath,  and  the  thick  volumes 
of  smoke  concealed  the  martyr  from  the  horror- 
stricken  crowd.  One  stifled  groan  arose  from  all 
that  vast  multitude,  like  the  moan  of  the  sea,  and 
•ill  was  hushed  again  ;  save  the  crackling  of  the 
fagots,  and  at  intervals  the  funeral  knell,  that  smote 
the  very  soul.  The  quivering  flames  darted  up- 


118  T1IE    BAPTISM    OF    FIRE. 

ward  and  around ;  and  an  agonizing  cry  broke 
from  the  murky  cloud, — 

"  My  God !  my  God  !  forsake  me  not,  that  I  for 
sake  not  thee ! " 

The  wind  lifted  the  reddening  smoke  like  a  veil, 
and  the  form  of  the  martyr  was  seen  to  fall  into 
the  fire  beneath.  In  a  moment  it  rose  again,  its 
garments  all  in  flame ;  and  again  the  faint,  half- 
smothered  cry  of  agony  was  heard, — 

"  My  God !  my  God !  forsake  me  not,  that  I  for 
sake  not  thee ! " 

Once  more  the  quivering  body  descended  into 
the  flames ;  and  once  more  it  was  lifted  into  the 
air,  a  blackened,  burning  cinder.  Again  and  again 
this  fiendish  mockery  of  baptism  was  repeated ;  till 
the  martyr,  with  a  despairing,  suffocating  voice, 
exclaimed, — 

"O  God!  I  cannot  die!" 

The  chief  executioner  came  forward,  and,  either 
in  mercy  to  the  dying  man  or  through  fear  of  the 
populace,  threw  a  noose  over  his  neck,  and  strangled 
the  almost  lifeless  victim.  At  the  same  moment 
the  cord  which  held  the  body  was  loosened,  and  it 
fell  into  the  fire  to  rise  no  more.  And  thus  was 
consummated  the  martyrdom  of  the  Baptism  of 
Fire. 


COQ-A-L'ANE. 


My  brain,  methinks,  is  like  an  hour-glass, 

Wherein  my  imaginations  run  like  sands, 

Filling  up  time ;  but  then  are  turned,  and  turned, 

So  that  I  know  not  what  to  stay  upon, 

And  less  to  put  in  art.  BEN  JONSON. 


A  RAINY  and  gloomy  winter  was  just  drawing 
to  its  close,  when  I  left  Paris  for  the  South  of 
France.  We  started  at  sunrise ;  and  as  we  passed 
along  the  solitary  streets  of  the  vast  and  silent 
metropolis,  drowsily  one  by  one  its  clanging  horo 
loges  chimed  the  hour  of  six.  Beyond  the  city- 
gates  the  wide  landscape  was  covered  with  a  silvery 
network  of  frost ;  a  wreath  of  vapor  overhung  the 
windings  of  the  Seine  ;  and  every  twig  and  shrub, 
with  its  shea*th  of  crystal,  flashed  in  the  level  rays 
of  the  rising  sun.  The  sharp  frosty  air  seemed  to 
quicken  the  sluggish  blood  of  the  old  postilion  and 
his  horses; — a  fresh  team  stood  ready  in  harness  at 
each  stage ;  and  notwithstanding  the  slippery  pave 
ment  of  the  causeway,  the  long  and  tedious  climb 
ing  the  hillside  upward,  and  the  equally  long  and 
tedious  descent  with  chained  wheels  and  the  drag, 
just  after  nightfall  the  lumbering  vehicle  of  Vin 
cent  Caillard  stopped  at  the  gateway  of  the  "  Three 
Emperors,"  in  the  famous  city  of  Orleans. 


120  COQ-A-L'ANE. 

I  cannot  pride  myself  much  upon  being  a  good 
travelling-companion,  for  the  rocking  of  a  coach 
always  lulls  me  into  forgetfulness  of  the  present ; 
and  no  sooner  does  the  hollow,  monotonous  rum 
bling  of  the  wheels  reach  my  ear,  than,  like  Nick 
Bottom,  "  I  have  an  exposition  of  sleep  come  upon 
me."  It  is  not,  however,  the  deep,  sonorous  slum 
ber  of  a  laborer,  "  stuffed  with  distressful  bread,1* 
but  a  kind  of  day-dream,  wherein  the  creations  of 
fancy  seem  realities,  and  the  real  world,  which 
swims  dizzily  before  the  half-shut,  drowsy  eye, 
becomes  mingled  with  the  imaginary  world  within. 
This  is  doubtless  a  very  great  failing  in  a  traveller; 
and  I  confess,  with  all  humility,  that  at  times  the 
line  of  demarkation  between  truth  and  fiction  is 
rendered  thereby  so  indefinite  and  indistinct,  that 
I  cannot  always  determine,  with  unerring  certainty, 
•whether  an  event  really  happened  to  me,  or 
whether  I  only  dreamed  it. 

On  this  account  I  shall  not  attempt  a  detailed 
description  of  my  journey  from  Paris  to  Bordeaux. 
1  was  travelling  like  a  bird  of  passage,  and  five 
weary  days  and  four  weary  nights  I  was  on  tho 
way.  The  diligence  stopped  only  to  change  horses, 
and  for  the  travellers  to  take  their  meals ;  and  by 
night  I  slept  with  my  head  under  my  wing  in  a 
snug  corner  of  the  coach. 

Strange  as  it  may  appear  to  some  of  my  readers, 
this  night-travelling  is  at  times  far  from  being  dis 
agreeable  ;  nay,  if  the  country  is  fiat  and  uninter 
esting,  and  you  are  favored  with  a  moon,  it  may 


COQ-A-L'AXE.  121 

be  very  pleasant.  As  the  night  advances,  the  con 
versation  around  you  gradually  dies  away,  and  is 
imperceptibly  given  up  to  some  garrulous  traveller 
•who  finds  himself  belated  in  the  midst  of  a  long 
story ;  and  when  at  length  he  puts  out  his  feelers 
in  the  form  of  a  question,  discovers,  by  the  silence 
around  him,  that  the  breathless  attention  of  hrs 
audience  is  owing  to  their  being  asleep.  All  is 
now  silent.  You  let  down  the  window  of  the  car 
riage,  and  the  fresh  night-air  cools  your  flushed 
and  burning  cheek.  The  landscape,  though  in 
reality  dull  and  uninteresting,  seems  beautiful  as 
it  floats  by  in  the  soft  moonshine.  Every  ruined 
hovel  is  changed  by  the  magic  of  night  to  a  trim 
cottage,  every  straggling  and  dilapidated  hamlet 
becomes  as  beautiful  as  those  we  read  of  in  poetry 
and  romance.  Over  the  lowland  hangs  a  silver 
mist ;  over  the  hills  peep  the  twinkling  stars.  The 
keen  night-air  is  a  spur  to  the  postilion  and  his 
horses.  In  the  words  of  the  German  ballad, — 

"  Halloo !  halloo !  away  they  go, 

Unheeding  wet  or  dry, 
And  horse  and  rider  snort  and  blow, 

And  sparkling  pebbles  fly. 
And  all  on  which  the  moon  doth  shine 

Behind  them  flees  afar, 
And  backward  sped,  scud  overhead, 

The  sky  and  every  star." 

Anon  you  stop  at  the  relay.  The  drowsy  hostler 
crawls  out  of  the  stable-yard ;  a  few  gruff  words 
and  strange  oaths  pass  between  him  and  the  pos* 


122  COQ-A.-I/AXE. 

tiliou, — then  there  is  a  coarse  joke  in  patois,  of 
which  you  understand  the  ribaldry  only,  and  \vhicb 
is  followed  by  a  hust  y  laugh,  a  sound  between  a 
hiss  and  a  growl ; — and  then  you  are  off  again  in  a 
crack.'  Occasionally  a  way-traveller  is  uncaged, 
and  a  new-comer  takes  the  vacant  perch  at  your 
elbow.  Meanwhile  your  busy  fancy  speculates 
upon  all  these  things,  and  you  fall  asleep  amid  ita 
thousand  vagaries.  Soon  you  wake  again,  and 
snuff  the  morning  air.  It  was  but  a  moment,  and 
yet  the  night  is  gone.  The  gray  of  twilight  steals 
into  the  window,  and  gives  a  ghastly  look  to  the 
countenances  of  the  sleeping  group  around  you. 
One  sits  bolt  upright  in  a  corner,  offending  none, 
and  stiff  and  motionless  as  an  Egyptian  mummy  ; 
another  sits  equally  straight  and  immovable,  but 
snores  like  a  priest ;  the  head  of  a  third  is  dangling 
over  his  shoulder,  and  the  tassel  of  his  nightcap 
tickles  his  neighbour's  ear;  a  fourth  has  lost  his 
hat, — his  wig  is  awry,  and  his  under-lip  hangs 
lolling  about  like  an  idiot's.  The  whole  scene  is  a 
living  caricature  of  man,  presenting  human  nature 
in  some  of  the  grotesque  attitudes  she  assumes, 
when  that  pragmatical  schoolmaster,  propriety,  has 
fallen  asleep  in  his  chair,  and  the  unruly  members 
of  his  charge  are  freed  from  the  thraldom  of  the 
rod. 

On  leaving  Orleans,  instead  of  following  the 
great  western  mail-route  through  Tours,  Poitiers, 
and  Angouleme,  and  thence  on  to  Bordeaux,  I 
•truck  across  die  departments  of  the  Indrc,  the 


COQ-A-L'ANE.  123 

Jlaute-Vienne,  and  the  Dordogne,  passing  through 
the  provincial  capitals  of  Chateauroux,  Limoges, 
and  Perigueux.  South  of  the  Loire  the  countrj 
assumes  a  more  mountainous  aspect,  and  the  land 
scape  is  broken  by  long  sweeping  hills  and  fertile 
valleys.  Many  a  fair  scene  invites  the  traveller's 
foot  to  pause  ;  and  his  eye  roves  with  delight  over 
the  picturesque  landscape  of  the  valley  of  the 
Creuse,  and  the  beautiful  highland  scenery  near 
Perigueux.  There  are  also  many  objects  of  art 
and  antiquity  which  arrest  his  attention.  Argenton 
boasts  its  Roman  amphitheatre,  and  the  ruins  of  an 
old  castle  built  by  King  Pepin ;  at  Chalus,  the 
tower  beneath  which  Richard  Coeur-de-Lion  was 
slain  is  still  pointed  out  to  the  curious  traveller; 
and  Perigueux  is  full  of  crumbling  monuments  of 
the  Middle  Ages. 

Scenes  like  these,  and  the  constant  chatter  of 
my  fellow-travellers,  served  to  enliven  the  tedium 
of  a  long  and  fatiguing  journey.  The  French  are 
preeminently  a  talking  people  ;  and  every  new 
object  afforded  a  topic  for  light  and  animated  discus 
sion.  The  affairs  of  church  and  state  were,  how 
ever,  the  themes  oftenest  touched  upon.  The  bill 
for  the  suppression  of  the  liberty  of  the  press  was 
then  under  discussion  in  the  Chamber  of  Peers, 
and  excited  the  most  lively  interest  through  the 
whole  kingdom.  Of  course  it  was  a  subject  not 
likely  to  be  forgotten  in  a  stage-coach. 

"  Ah !  mon  Dieu !  "  said  a  brisk  little  man,  with 
Biiow-white  hair  and  a  .blazing  red  face,  at  the  same 


124  COQ-A-L'AXE. 

time  drawing  up  his  shoulders  to  a  level  with  his 
ears ;  "  the  ministry  arc  determined  to  carry  their 
point  at  all  events.  They  mean  to  break  down 
the  liberty  of  the  press,  cost  \vhat  it  will." 

"If  they  succeed,"  added  the  person  who  sat 
opposite,  "  we  may  thank  the  Jesuits  for  it.  It  is 
all  their  work.  They  rule  the  mind  of  our  imbe 
cile  monarch,  and  it  is  their  miserable  policy  to 
keep  the  people  in  darkness." 

"  No  doubt  of  that,"  rejoined  the  first  speaker. 
"  "Why,  no  longer  ago  than  yesterday  I  read  in  the 
Figaro  that  a  printer  had  been  prosecuted  for  pub 
lishing  the  moral  lessons  of  the  Evangelists  without 
the  miracles." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  "  said  I.  "  And  arc  the  people 
so  stupid  as  thus  patiently  to  offer  their  shoulders 
to  the  pack-saddle  ?  " 

"  Most  certainly  not !  We  shall  have  another 
revolution." 

"  If  history  speaks  true,  you  have  had  revolu 
tions  enough,  during  the  last  century  or  two,  to 
satisfy  th:  yiost  mercurial  nation  on  earth.  You 
have  hardly  been  quiet  a  moment  since  the  day  of 
the  Barricades  and  the  memorable  war  of  the  pote- 
de-chambre  in  the  times  of  the  Grand  Conde." 

"  You  arc  pleased  to  speak  lightly  of  our  revolu 
tions,  Sir,"  rejoined  the  politician,  growing  wann. 
**  You  must,  however,  confess  that  each  successive 
one  has  brought  us  nearer  to  our  object.  Old 
institutions,  whose  foundations  lie  deep  in  the  pre 
judices  of  a  great  nation,  are  not  to  be  toppled 


COQ-A-L'ANE,  125 

by  the  springing  of  a  single  mine.  You  must 
confess  too,  that  our  national  character  is  much 
improved  since  the  days  you  speak  of.  The  youth 
of  the  present  century  are  not  so  frivolous  as  those 
of  the  last.  They  have  no  longer  that  unbounded 
levity  and  light-heartedness  so  generally  ascribed  to 
them.  From  this  circumstance  we  have  every 
thing  to  hope.  Our  revolutions,  likewise,  must 
necessarily  change  their  character,  and  secure  to 
us  more  solid  advantages  than  heretofore." 

"  Luck  makes  pluck,  as  the  Germans  say.  You 
go  on  bravely  ;  but  it  gives  me  pain  to  see  re 
ligion  and  the  church  so  disregarded." 

"  Superstition  and  the  church,  you  mean,"  said 
the  gray-headed  man.  "  Why,  Sir,  the  church  is 
nothing  now-a-days  but  a  tumble-down,  dilapidated 
tower  for  rooks  and  daws,  and  such  silly  birds,  to 
build  their  nests  in  !  " 

It  was  now  very  evident  that  I  had  unearthed  a 
radical;  and  there  is  no  knowing  when  his  ha 
rangue  would  have  ended,  had  not  his  voice  been 
drowned  by  the  noise  of  the  wheels,  as  we  entered 
the  paved  street  of  the  city  of  Limoges. 

A  breakfast  of  boiled  capon  stuffed  with  truffles, 
and  accompanied  by  a  pate  de  Perigueux,  a  dish 
well  known  to  French  gourmands,  restored  us  all 
to  good-humor.  While  we  were  at  breakfast,  a 
personage  stalked  into  the  room,  whose  strange  ap 
pearance  arrested  my  attention,  and  gave  subject 
for  future  conversation  to  our  party.  lie  was  a 
tall,  thin  figure,  armed  with  a  long  whip,  brass  spurs, 


1 26  COQ-A-L'ANE. 

and  black  whiskers.  He  wore  a  bell-crowned,  var 
nished  hat,  a  blue  frock-coat  with  standing  collar,  a 
red  waistcoat,  a  pair  of  yellow  leather  breeches,  and 
boots  that  reached  to  the  knees.  I  at  first  took 
him  for  a  postilion,  or  a  private  courier;  but,  upon 
inquiry,  I  found  that  he  was  only  the  son  of  a 
notary  public,  and  that  he  dressed  in  this  strange 
fashion  to  please  his  own  fancy. 

As  soon  as  we  were  comfortably  seated  in  the 
diligence,  I  made  some  remark  on  the  singular 
costume  of  the  personage  whom  I  had  just  seen  at 
the  tavern. 

"  These  things  are  so  common  with  us,"  said  the 
politician,  "that  we  hardly  notice  them." 

"  What  you  want  in  liberty  of  speech,  then,  you 
make  up  in  liberty  of  dress  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  in  this,  at  least,  we  are  a  free  people." 

"  I  had  not  been  long  in  France,  before  I  dis 
covered  that  a  man  may  dress  as  he  pleases,  with 
out  being  stared  at.  The  most  opposite  styles  of 
dress  seem  to  be  in  vogue  at  the  same  moment 
No  strange  garment  nor  desperate  hat  excites 
either  ridicule  or  surprise.  French  fashions  are 
known  and  imitated  all  the  world  over." 

"  Very  true,  indeed,"  said  a  little  man  in 
gosling-green.  "  We  give  fashions  to  all  other 
nations." 

"  Fashions  !  "  said  the  politician,  with  a  kind  of 
growl, — "  fashions  !  Yes,  Sir,  and  some  of  us  are 
simple  enough  to  boast  of  it,  as  if  we  were  a  nation 
>1  tailors." 


COQ-A-L'ANE.  127 

Here  the  little  man  in  gosling-green  pulled  up 
the  horns  of  his  cotton  shirt-collar. 

"  I  recollect,"  said  I,  "  that  your  Madame  de 
Pompadour,  in  one  of  her  letters,  says  something 
to  this  effect :  '  We  furnish  our  enemies  with  hair 
dressers,  ribbons,  and  fashions;  and  they  furnish 
us  with  laws.' " 

"  That  is  not  the  only  silly  thing  she  said  in  her 
lifetime.  Ah  !  Sir,  these  Pompadours,  and  Mainte- 
nons,  and  Montespans  were  the  authors  of  much 
woe  to  France.  Their  follies  and  extravagances 
exhausted  the  public  treasury,  and  made  the 
nation  poor.  They  built  palaces,  and  covered 
themselves  with  jewels,  and  ate  from  golden  plate ; 
while  the  people  who  toiled  for  them  had  hardly 
a  crust  to  keep  their  own  children  from  starvation 
And  yet  they  preach  to  us  the  divine  right  of 
kings ! " 

My  radical  had  got  upon  his  high  horse  again ; 
and  I  know  not  whither  it  would  have  carried  him, 
had  not  a  thin  man  with  a  black,-  seedy  coat,  who 
sat  at  his  elbow,  at  that  moment  crossed  his  path, 
by  one  of  those  abrupt  and  sudden  transitions 
which  leave  you  aghast  at  the  strange  association 
of  ideas  in  the  speaker's  mind. 

"Apropos  de  holies !  "  exclaimed  he,  "  speaking 
of  boots,  and  notaries  public,  and  such  matters,—- 
excuse  me  for  interrupting  you,  Sir, — a  little  story 
has  just  popped  into  my  head  which  may  amuse 
the  company ;  and  as  I  am  not  very  fond  of  politi- 


128  COQ-A-L  ANE. 

cal  discussions, — no  offence,  Sir, — I  will  tell  it,  for 
the  sake  of  changing  the  conversation." 

Whereupon,  without  further  preamble  or  apol 
ogy,  he  proceeded  to  tell  his  story  in,  as  nearly  aa 
may  be,  the  following  words. 


THE 

NOTARY   OF  PERIGUEUX. 


Do  not  trust  thy  body  with  a  physician.  He'll  make  thy 
fcolish  bones  go  without  flesh  in  a  fortnight,  and  thy  soul  walk 
without  a  body  a  sennight  after. 

SHIKXEY. 


You  must  know,  gentlemen,  that  there  lived 
some  years  ago,  in  the  city  of  Perigueux,  an  honest 
notary  public,  the  descendant  of  a  very  ancient 
and  broken-down  family,  and  the  occupant  of  one 
of  those  old  weather-beaten  tenements  which  re 
mind  you  of  the  times  of  your  great-grandfather. 
He  was  a  man  of  an  unoffending,  quiet  disposition ; 
the  father  of  a  family,  though  not  the  head  of  it, — 
for  in  that  family  "  the  hen  over-crowed  the  cock," 
and  the  neighbours,  when  they  spake  of  the  notary, 
shrugged  their  shoulders,  and  exclaimed,  "  Poor 
fellow  !  his  spurs  want  sharpening."  In  fine, — 
you  understand  me,  gentlemen,  —  he  was  hen 
pecked. 

Well,  finding  no  peace  at  home,  he  sought  it 
elsewhere,  as  was  very  natural  for  him  to  do ;  and 
at  length  discovered  a  place  of  rest,  far  beyond  the 
cares  and  clamors  of  domestic  life.  This  was  a 

VOL.  i.  9 


130  THE   NOTARY   OF   PEBIGUEUX. 

little  cafe  cstaminet,  a  short  way  out  of  the  city, 
whither  he  repaired  every  evening  to  smoke  his 
pipe,  drink  sugar-water,  and  play  his  favorite  game 
of  domino.  There  he  met  the  boon  companions 
he  most  loved ;  heard  all  the  floating  chitchat  of 
the  day ;  laughed  when  he  was  in  merry  mood ; 
found  consolation  when  he  was  sad;  and  at  all 
times  gave  vent  to  his  opinions,  without  fear  of 
being  snubbed  short  by  a  flat  contradiction. 

Now,  the  notary's  bosom-friend  was  a  dealer  in 
claret  and  cognac,  who  lived  about  a  league  from 
the  city,  and  always  passed  his  evenings  at  the 
estaminet.  He  was  a  gross,  corpulent  fellow,  raised 
from  a  full-blooded  Gascon  breed,  and  sired  by  a 
comic  actor  of  some  reputation  in  his  way.  He 
was  remarkable  for  nothing  but  his  good-humor, 
his  love  of  cards,  and  a  strong  propensity  to  test 
the  quality  of  his  own  liquors  by  comparing  them 
with  those  sold  at  other  places. 

As  evil  communications  corrupt  good  manners, 
the  bad  practices  of  the  wine-dealer  won  insensibly 
upon  the  worthy  notary ;  and  before  he  was  aware 
of  it,  he  found  himself  weaned  from  domino  and 
sugar-water,  and  addicted  to  piquet  and  spiced 
wine.  Indeed,  it  not  unfrequcntly  happened,  that, 
after  a  long  session  at  the  estaminet,  the  two  friends 
grew  so  urbane,  that  they  would  waste  a  full  half- 
hour  at  the  door  in  friendly  dispute  which  should 
conduct  the  other  home. 

Though  tliis  course  of  life  agreed  well  enough 
with  the  sluggish,  phlegmatic  temperament  of  the 


THE  NOTARY   OF   PERIGTJEUX.  131 

wine-dealer,  it  soon  began  to  play  the  very  deuse 
with  the  more  sensitive  organization  of  the  notary, 
and  finally  put  his  nervous  system  completely  out 
of  tune.  He  lost  his  appetite,  became  gaunt  and 
haggard,  and  could  get  no  sleep.  Legions  of  blue- 
devils  haunted  him  by  day,  and  by  night  strange 
faces  peeped  through  his  bed-curtains  and  the 
nightmare  snorted  in  his  ear.  The  worse  he  grew, 
the  more  he  smoked  and  tippled ;  and  the  more  he 
smoked  and  tippled, — why,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
the  worse  he  grew.  His  wife  alternately  stormed, 
remonstrated,  entreated;  but  all  in  vain.  She 
made  the  house  too  hot  for  him, — he  retreated  to 
the  tavern ;  she  broke  his  long-stemmed  pipes  upon 
the  andirons, — he  substituted  a  short-stemmed  one, 
which,  for  safe  keeping,  he  carried  in  his  waistcoat- 
pocket. 

Thus  the  unhappy  notary  ran  gradually  down 
at  the  heel.  What  with  his  bad  habits  and  his 
domestic  grievances,  he  became  completely  hipped. 
He  imagined  that  he  was  going  to  die ;  and  suf 
fered  in  quick  succession  all  the  diseases  that  ever 
beset  mortal  man.  Every  shooting  pain  was  an 
alarming  symptom, — every  uneasy  feeling  after 
dinner  a  sure  prognostic  of  some  mortal  disease. 
In  vain  did  his  friends  endeavour  to  reason,  and 
then  to  laugh  him  out  of  his  strange  whims ;  for 
when  did  ever  jest  or  reason  cure  a  sick  imagina 
tion  ?  His  only  answer  was,  "  Do  let  me  alone ; 
I  know  better  than  you  what  ails  me." 

Well,  gentlemen,  things  were  in  this  state,  when, 


132  THE   NOTARY   OF    PERIGUEUX. 

one  afternoon  in  December,  as  he  sat  moping  in 
his  office,  wrapped  in  an  overcoat,  with  a  cap  on 
his  head,  and  his  feet  thrust  into  a  pair  of  i'urred 
slippers,  a  cabriolet  stopped  at  the  door,  and  a  loud 
knocking  without  aroused  him  from  his  gloomy 
revery.  It  was  a  message  from  his  friend  the 
wine-dealer,  who  had  been  suddenly  attacked  with 
a  violent  fever,  and,  growing  worse  and  worse,  had 
now  sent  in  the  greatest  haste  for  the  notary  to 
draw  up  his  last  will  and  testament.  The  case  was 
urgent,  and  admitted  neither  excuse  nor  delay; 
and  the  notary,  tying  a  handkerchief  round  his 
face,  and  buttoning  up  to  the  chin,  jumped  into 
the  cabriolet,  and  suffered  himself,  though  not 
without  some  dismal  presentiments  and  misgivings 
of  heart,  to  be  driven  to  the  wine-dealer's  house. 

When  he  arrived,  he  found  every  thing  in  the 
greatest  confusion.  On  entering  the  house,  he 
ran  against  the  apothecary,  who  was  coming  down 
stairs,  with  a  face  as  long  as  your  arm;  and  a  few 
steps  farther  he  met  the  housekeeper — for  the 
wine-dealer  was  an  old  bachelor — running  up  and 
down,  and  wringing  her  hands,  for  fear  that  the 
good  man  should  die  without  making  his  will.  He 
soon  reached  the  chamber  of  his  sick  friend,  and 
found  him  tossing  about  in  a  paroxysm  of  fever, 
and  calling  aloud  for  a  draught  of  cold  water.  The 
notary  shook  his  head ;  he  thought  this  a  fatal 
symptom ;  for  ten  years  back  the  wine-dealer  had 
been  suffering  under  a  species  of  hydrophobia, 
which  seemed  suddenly  to  have  left  him. 


THE  NOTARY   OF   PERIGUEUX.  133 

When  the  sick  man  saw  who  stood  by  his  bed 
side,  he  stretched  out  his  hand  and  exclaimed, — 

"  Ah !  my  dear  friend  !  have  you  come  at  last . 
You  see  it  is  all  over  with  me.  .  You  have  arrived 
just  in  time  to  draw  up  that — that  passport  of 
mine.  Ah,  grand  diaUe !  how  hot  it  is  here !  / 
Water,— water,— water !  Will  nobody  give  me  a 
drop  of  cold  water  ?  " 

As  the  case  was  an  urgent  one,  the  notary  made 
no  delay  in  getting  his  papers  in  readiness ;  and  in 
a  short  time  the  last  will  and  testament  of  the 
wine-dealer  was  drawn  up  in  due  form,  the  notary 
guiding  the  sick  man's  hand  as  he  scrawled  his 
signature  at  the  bottom. 

As  the  evening  wore  away,  the  wine-dealer 
grew  worse  and  worse,  and  at  length  became 
delirious,  mingling  in  his  incoherent  ravings 
the  phrases  of  the  Credo  and  Paternoster  with 
the  shibboleth  of  the  dram-shop  and  the  card- 
table. 

"Take  care!  take  care!  There,  now — Credo 
in — Pop  !  ting-a-ling-ling !  give  me  some  of  that. 
Cent-e-dize !  Why,  you  old  publican,  this  wine  is 
poisoned, — I  know  your  tricks ! — Sanctam  ecclesiam 
CathoUcam — Well,  well,  we  shall  see.  Imbecile ! 
to  have  a  tierce-major  and  a  seven  of  hearts,  and 
discard  the  seven  !  By  St.  Anthony,  capot  1  You 
are  lurched, — ha !  ha !  I  told  you  so.  I  knew 
very  well, — there, — there, — don't  interrupt  me — 
Carnis  resurrectionem  et  vitam  eternam ! " 

With  these  words  upon  his  lips,  the  poor  wine* 


134  THE   NOTARY   OF   PERIGUEUX. 

dealer  expired.  Meanwhile  the  notary  sat  cowei* 
ing  over  the  fire,  aghast  at  the  fearful  scene  that 
was  passing  before  him,  and  now  and  then  striving 
to  keep  up  his  courage  by  a  glass  of  cognac. 
Already  his  fears  were  on  the  alert ;  and  the  idea 
of  contagion  flitted  to  and  fro  through  his  mind. 
In  order  to  quiet  these  thoughts  of  evil  import, 
he  lighted  his  pipe,  and  began  to  prepare  for 
returning  home.  At  that  moment  the  apothecary 
turned  round  to  him  and  said, — 

"  Dreadful  sickly  time,  this !  The  disorder  seems 
to  be  spreading." 

"  What  disorder  ?  "  exclaimed  the  notary,  with 
a  movement  of  surprise. 

"  Two  died  yesterday,  and  three  to-day,"  con 
tinued  the  apothecary,  without  answering  the 
question.  "  Very  sickly  time,  Sir, — very." 

"  But  what  disorder  is  it  ?  What  disease  has 
carried  off  my  friend  here  so  suddenly  ?  " 

"  What  disease  ?  Why,  scarlet  fever,  to  be 
sure." 

"  And  is  it  contagious  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  Then  I  am  a  dead  man ! "  exclaimed  the 
notary,  putting  his  pipe  into  his  waistcoat-pocket, 
and  beginning  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room 
in  despair.  "  I  am  a  dead  man  !  Now  don't 
deceive  me, — don't,  will  you?  What — what  are 
the  symptoms  ?  " 

"  A  sharp  burning  pain  in  the  right  side,"  said 
the  apothecary. 


THE   NOTARY   OF   PERIGUEUX.  135 

"  O,  what  a  fool  I  was  to  come  here ! " 
In  vain  did  the  housekeeper  and  the  apothecary 
strive  to  pacify  him; — he  was  not  a  man  to  be 
reasoned  with ;  he  answered  that  he  knew  his  own 
constitution  better  than  they  did,  and  insisted  upon 
going  home  without  delay.  Unfortunately,  the 
vehicle  he  came  in  had  returned  to  the  city ;  and 
the  whole  neighbourhood  was  abed  and  asleep. 
What  was  to  be  done  ?  Nothing  in  the  world 
but  to  take  the  apothecary's  horse,  which  stood 
hitched  at  the  door,  patiently  waiting  his  master's 
will. 

Well,  gentlemen,  as  there  was  no  remedy,  our 
notary  mounted  this  raw-boned  steed,  and  set  forth 
upon  his  homeward  journey.  The  night  was  cold 
and  gusty,  and  the  wind  right  in  his  teeth.  Over 
head  the  leaden  clouds  were  beating  to  and  fro, 
and  through  them  the  newly  risen  moon  seemed 
to  be  tossing  and  drifting  along  like  a  cock-boat  in 
the  surf;  now  swallowed  up  in  a  huge  billow  of 
cloud,  and  now  lifted  upon  its  bosom  and  dashed 
with  silvery  spray.  The  trees  by  the  roadside 
groaned  with  a  sound  of  evil  omen ;  and  before 
him  lay  three  mortal  miles,  beset  with  a  thousand 
imaginary  perils.  Obedient  to  the  whip  and  spur, 
the  steed  leaped  forward  by  fits  and  starts,  now 
dashing  away  in  a  tremendous  gallop,  and  now 
relaxing  into  a  long,  hard  trot;  while  the  rider, 
filled  with  symptoms  of  disease  and  dire  presenti 
ments  of  death,  urged  him  on,  as  if  he  were  fleeing 
bsfoi-e  the  pestilence. 


136  THE  XOTAKY   OF    TERIGUEUX. 

In  this  way,  by  dint  of  whistling  and  shouting, 
and  beating  right  and  left,  one  mile  of  the  fatal 
three  was  safely  passed.  The  apprehensions  of 
the  notary  had  so  far  subsided,  that  he  even 
suffered  the  poor  horse  to  walk  up  hill ;  but 
these  apprehensions  were  suddenly  revived  again 
with  tenfold  violence  by  a  sharp  pain  in  the 
right  side,  which  seemed  to  pierce  him  like  a 
needle. 

"  It  is  upon  me  at  last ! "  groaned  the  fear- 
stricken  man.  "  Heaven  be  merciful  to  me,  the 
greatest  of  sinners !  And  must  I  die  in  a  ditch, 
after  all ?  He!  get  up, — get  up  ! "  0 

And  away  went  horse  and  rider  at  full  speed, — 
hurry-scurry, — up  hill  and  down, — panting  and 
blowing  like  a  whirlwind.  At  every  leap,  the 
pain  in  the  rider's  side  seemed  to  increase.  At 
first  it  was  a  little  point  like  the  prick  of  a  needle, 
— then  it  spread  to  the  size  of  a  half-franc  piece, — 
then  covered  a  place  as  large  as  the  palm  of  your 
hand.  It  gained  upon  him  fast.  The  poor  man 
groaned  aloud  in  agony ;  faster  and  faster  sped  the 
horse  over  the  frozen  ground, — farther  and  farther 
spread  the  pain  over  his  side.  To  complete  the 
dismal  picture,  the  storm  commenced, — snow 
mingled  with  rain.  But  snow,  and  rain,  and  cold 
were  naught  to  him ;  for,  though  his  arms  and 
legs  were  frozen  to  icicles,  he  felt  it  not ;  the  fatal 
symptom  was  upon  him  ;  he  was  doomed  to  die, — 
not  of  cold,  but  of  scarlet  fever  1 

At  length,  he  knew  not  how,  more  dead  than 


THE   NOTARY   OF   PERIGUEUX.  137 

alive,  he  reached  the  gate  of  the  city.  A  band  of 
ill-bred  dogs,  that  were  serenading  at  a  corner  of 
the  street,  seeing  the  notary  dash  by,  joined  in  tho 
hue  and  cry,  and  ran  barking  and  yelping  at  hig 
heels.  It  was  now  late  at  night,  and  only  here  and 
there  a  solitary  lamp  twinkled  from  an  upper 
story.  But  on  went  the  notary,  down  this  street 
and  up  that,  till  at  last  he  reached  his  own  door. 
There  was  a  light  in  his  wife's  bed-chamber.  The 
good  woman  came  to  the  window,  alarmed  at  such 
a  knocking,  and  howling,  and  clattering  at  her 
door  so  late  at  night ;  and  the  notary  was  too 
deeply  absorbed  in  his  own  sorrows  to  observe 
that  the  lamp  cast  the  shadow  of  two  heads  on 
the  window-curtain. 

"  Let  me  in  !  let  me  in  !  Quick !  quick ! "  he 
exclaimed,  almost  breathless  from  terror  and 
fatigue. 

"  Who  are  you,  that  come  to  disturb  a  lone 
woman  at  this  hour  of  the  night  ?  "  cried  a  sharp 
voice  from  above.  "  Begone  about  your  business, 
and  let  quiet  people  sleep." 

"  O,  diable  !  dlable  !  Come  down  and  let  me 
in !  I  am  your  husband.  Don't  you  know  my 
voice  ?  Quick,  I  beseech  you ;  for  I  am  dying 
here  in  the  street ! " 

After  a  few  moments  of  delay  and  a  few  more 
.words  of  parley,  the  door  was  opened,  and  the 
notary  stalked  into  his  domicil,  pale  and  haggard 
in  aspect,  and  as  stiff  and  straight  as  a  ghost. 
Cased  from  head  to  heel  in  an  armor  of  ice,  as  the 


138  THE   NOTARY   OF    PERIGUEUX. 

glare  of  the  lamp  fell  upon  him,  he  looked  like  a 
knight-errant  mailed  in  steel.  But  in  one  place 
his  armor  was  broken.  On  his  right  side  was  a 
circular  spot,  as  large  as  the  crown  of  your  hat, 
and  about  as  black ! 

"  My  dear  wife ! "  he  exclaimed,  with  more 
tenderness  than  he  had  exhibited  for  many  years, 
"  reach  me  a  chair.  My  hours  are  numbered.  I 
am  a  dead  man  ! " 

Alarmed  at  these  exclamations,  his  wife  stripped 
off  his  overcoat.  Something  fell  from  beneath  it, 
and  was  dashed  to  pieces  on  the  hearth.  It  was 
the  notary's  pipe !  He  placed  his  hand  upon  his 
side,  and,  lo !  it  was  bare  to  the  skin  !  Coat,  waist 
coat,  and  linen  were  burnt  through  and  through, 
and  there  was  a  blister  on  his  side  as  large  over  as 
your  head ! 

The  mystery  was  soon  explained,  symptom  and 
all.  The  notary  had  put  his  pipe  into  his  pocket, 
without  knocking  out  the  ashes  !  And  so  my  story 
ends. 


"Is  that  all?"  asked  the  radical,  when  the 
story-teller  had  finished. 

"  That  is  all." 

"  Well,  what  does  your  story  prove?" 

"  That  is  more  than  I  can  tell.  All  I  know  is 
that  the  story  is  true." 

"  And  did  he  die  ?  "  said  the  nice  little  man  in 
gosling-green. 


THE  NOTARY   OF   PERIGUEUX.  139 

"Yes;  he  died  afterward,"  replied  the  story 
teller,  rather  annoyed  by  the  question. 

"And  what  did  he  die  of?"  continued  gosling- 
green,  following  him  up. 

"What  did  ho  die  of?  why,  he  died — of  a 
sudden ! " 


SPAIN. 


THE 


JOURNEY  INTO  SPAIN. 


A  1 'issue  de  1'yver  quc  le  joly  temps  de  primavere  commence, 
et  qu'on  voit  arbres  verdoyer,  fleurs  espanouir,  et  qu'on  oit  lea 
oisillons  chanter  en  toute  joie  et  doulceur,  tant  que  les  verts 
bocages  retentissent  de  Icurs  sons  et  que  coeurs  tristes  pensifs  y 
dolens  s'en  esjouissent,  s'emeuvent  £.  delaisser  deuil  et  toute 
tristesse,  et  se  parforcent  4  valoir  mieux. 

LA  PLAISANTE  HISTOIRE  DE  GUERIN  DE  MONGLAVE. 


SOFT-BREATHING  Spring !  how  many  pleasant 
thoughts,  how  many  delightful  recollections,  does 
thy  name  awaken  in  the  mind  of  a  traveller! 
Whether  he  has  followed  thee  by  the  banks  of  the 
Loire  or  the  Guadalquivir,  or  traced  thy  footsteps 
slowly  climbing  the  sunny  slope  of  Alp  or  Apen- 
nine,  the  thought  of  thee  shall  summon  up  sweet 
visions  of  the  past,  and  thy  golden  sunshine  and 
soft  vapory  atmosphere  become  a  portion  of  hia 
day-dreams  and  of  him.  Sweet  images  of  thee, 
and  scenes  that  have  oft  inspired  the  poet's  song, 
shall  mingle  in  his  recollections  of  the  past.  The 
shooting  of  the  tender  leaf, — the  sweetness  and 
elasticity  of  the  air, — the  blue  sky, — the  fleet  drift 
ing  cloud, — and  the  flocks  of  wild  fowl  wheeling  in 
long-drawn  phalanx  through  the  air,  and  scream- 


144  TIIE    JOURNEY    IXTO    SPAIN. 

ing  from  their  dizzy  height, — all  these  shall  pass 
like  a  dream  before  his  imagination. 

"  And  gently  o'er  his  memory  come  at  times 
A  glimpse  of  joys  that  had  their  birth  in  thee, 
Like  a  brief  strain  of  some  forgotten  tune." 

It  was  at  the  opening  of  this  delightful  season  of 
the  year  that  I  passed  through  the  south  of  France, 
and  took  the  road  of  St.  Jean  de  Luz  for  the 
Spanish  frontier.  I  left  Bordeaux  amid  all  the 
noise  and  gaycty  of  the  last  scene  of  Carnival. 
The  streets  and  public  walks  of  the  city  were  full 
of  merry  groups  in  masks, — at  every  corner  crowds 
were  listening  to  the  discordant  music  of  the  wander 
ing  ballad-singer;  and  grotesque  figures,  mounted 
on  high  stilts,  and  dressed  in  the  garb  of  the 
peasants  of  the  Laudes  of  Gascony,  were  stalking 
up  and  down  like  so  many  long-legged  cranes ; 
others  were  amusing  themselves  with  the  tricks  and 
grimaces  of  little  monkeys,  disguised  like  little  men, 
bowing  to  the  ladies,  and  figuring  away  in  red  coats 
and  ruffles ;  and  here  and  there  a  band  of  chimney 
sweeps  were  staring  in  stupid  wonder  at  the  mir 
acles  of  a  showman's  box.  In  a  word,  all  was  so 
full  of  mirth  and  merriinake,  that  even  beggary 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  that  it  was  wretched,  and 
gloried  in  the  ragged  masquerade  of  one  poor  holi 
day. 

To  this  scene  of  noise  and  gayety  succeeded  the 
silence  and  solitude  of  the  Landes  of  Gascony. 
The  road  from.  Bordeaux  to  Bayonne  winds  along 
through  immense  piup.-foreste  and  s'andy  plains, 


THE   JOURNEY   INTO    SPAIN.  145 

spotted  here  and  there  with  a  dingy  little  hovel, 
and  the  silence  is  interrupted  only  by  the  dismal 
hollow  roar  of  the  wind  among  the  melancholy  and 
majestic  pines.  Occasionally,  however,  the  way 
is  enlivened  by  a  market-town  or  a  straggling  vil 
lage;  and  I  still  recollect  the  feelings  of  delight 
which  I  experienced,  when,  just  after  sunset,  we 
passed  through  the  romantic  town  of  Roquefort, 
built  upon  the  sides  of  the  green  valley  of  the 
Douze,  which  has  scooped  out  a  verdant  hollow  for 
it  to  nestle  in,  amid  those  barren  tracts  of  sand. 

On  leaving  Bayonne,  the  scene  assumes  a  char 
acter  of  greater  beauty  and  sublimity.  To  the 
vast  forest  of  the  Landes  of  Gascony  succeeds  a 
scene  of  picturesque  beauty,  delightful  to  the 
traveller's  eye.  Before  him  rise  the  snowy  Pyr 
enees, — a  long  line  of  undulating  hills, — 

"  Bounded  afar  by  peak  aspiring  bold, 

Like  giant  capped  with  helm  of  burnished  gold." 

To  the  left,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  stretch 
the  delicious  valleys  of  the  Nive  and  Adour  ; 
and  to  the  right  the  sea  flashes  along  the  pebbly 
margin  of  its  silver  beach,  forming  a  thousand 
little  bays  and  inlets,  or  comes  tumbling  in  among 
the  cliffs  of  a  rock-bound  coast,  and  beats  against 
its  massive  barriers  with  a  distant,  hollow,  con 
tinual  roar. 

Should  these  pages  meet  the  eye  of  any  solitary 
traveller  who  is  journeying  into  Spain  by  the 
road  I  here  speak  of,  I  would  advise  him  to  travel 

VOL.  i.  10 


146  THE   JOURNEY   INTO   SPAEY. 

from  Bayonne  to  St.  Jean  <le  Luz  on  horseback 
At  the  gate  of  Bayonne  he  will  find  a  steed  ready 
caparisoned  for  him,  with  a  dark-eyed  Basque  girl 
for  his  companion  and  guide,  who  is  to  sit  beside 
him  upon  the  same  horse.  This  style  of  travelling 
is,  I  believe,  peculiar  to  the  Basque  provinces ;  at 
all  events,  I  have  seen  it  nowhere  else.  The 
saddle  is  constructed  with  a  large  frame-work  ex 
tending  on  each  side,  and  covered  with  cushions; 
and  the  traveller  and  his  guide,  being  placed  on 
the  opposite  extremities,  serve  as  a  balance  to 
each  other.  We  overtook  many  travellers  mounted 
in  this  way,  and  I  could  not  help  thinking  it  a 
mode  of  travelling  far  preferable  to  being  cooped 
up  in  a  diligence.  The  Basque  girls  are  generally 
beautiful ;  and  there  was  one  of  these  merry 
guides  we  met  upon  the  road  to  Bidart,  whose 
image  haunts  me  still.  She  had  large  and  ex 
pressive  black  eyes,  teeth  like  pearls,  a  rich  and 
sunburnt  complexion,  and  hair  of  a  glossy  black 
ness,  parted  on  the  forehead,  and  falling  down 
behind  in  a  large  braid,  so  long  as  almost  to  touch 
the  ground  with  the  little  ribbon  that  confined 
it  at  the  end.  She  wore  the  common  dress  of 
the  peasantry  of  the  south  of  France,  and  a  large 
pypsy  straw  hat  was  thrown  back  over  her 
shoulder,  and  tied  by  a  ribbon  about  her  neck. 
There  was  hardly  a  dusty  traveller  in  the  coach 
who  did  not  envy  her  companion  the  seat  he 
occupied  beside  her. 

Just   at   nightfall   we  entered  the  town  of  St. 


THE   JOURNEY   INTO    SPAIN.  147 

Jean  de  Luz,  and  dashed  down  its  narrow  streets 
at  full  gallop.  The  little  madcap  postilion  cracked 
his  knotted  whip  incessantly,  and  the  sound  echoed 
back  from  the  high  dingy  walls  like  the  report  of 
a  pistol.  The  coach-wheels  nearly  touched  the 
houses  on  each  side  of  us ;  the  idlers  in  the  street 
jumped  right  and  left  to  save  themselves  ;  window- 
shutters  flew  open  in  all  directions  ;  a  thousand 
heads  popped  out  from  cellar  and  upper  story; 
"  Sacr-r-re  matin  I  "  shouted  the  postilion, — and 
we  rattled  on  like  an  earthquake. 

St.  Jean  de  Luz  is  a  smoky  little  fishing  town, 
situated  on  the  low  grounds  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Nivelle,  and  a  bridge  connects  it  with  the  faubourg 
of  Sibourne,  which  stands  on  the  opposite  bank 
of  the  river.  I  had  no  time,  however,  to  note  the 
peculiarities  of  the  place,  for  I  was  whirled  out 
of  it  with  the  same  speed  and  confusion  with 
which  I  had  been  whirled  in,  and  I  can  only 
recollect  the  sweep  of  the  road  across  the  Nivelle, 
— the  church  of  Sibourne  by  the  water's  edge, — 
the  narrow  streets, — the  smoky-looking  houses  with 
red  window-shutters,  and  "  a  very  ancient  and 
fish-like  smell." 

I  passed  by  moonlight  the  little  River  Bidasoa, 
which  forms  the  boundary  between  France  and 
Spain  ;  and  when  the  morning  broke,  found  myself 
far  up  among  the  mountains  of  San  Salvador,  the 
most  westerly  links  of  the  great  Pyrenean  chain. 
The  mountains  around  me  were  neither  rugged 
nor  precipitous,  but  they  rose  one  above  another 


148  THE   JOURNEY   INTO    SPAIN. 

in  a  long,  majestic  swell,  and  the  trace  of  tho 
ploughshare  was  occasionally  visible  to  their  sum' 
mits.  They  seemed  entirely  destitute  of  forest- 
scenery  ;  and  as  the  season  of  vegetation  had  not 
yet  commenced,  their  huge  outlines  lay  black,  and 
barren,  and  desolate  against  the  sky.  But  it.was 
a  glorious  morning,  and  the  sun  rose  up  into  a 
cloudless  heaven,  and  poured  a  flood  of  gorgeous 
splendor  over  the  mountain  landscape,  as  if  proud 
of  the  realm  he  shone  upon.  The  scene  was 
enlivened  by  the  dashing  of  a  swollen  mountain 
brook,  whose  course  we  followed  for  miles  down 
the  valley,  as  it  leaped  onward  to  its  journey's 
end,  now  breaking  into  a  white  cascade,  and  now 
foaming  and  chafing  beneath  a  rustic  bridge. 
Now  and  then  we  rode  through  a  dilapidated 
town,  with  a  group  of  idlers  at  every  corner, 
wrapped  in  tattered  brown  cloaks,  and  smoking 
their  little  paper  cigars  in  the  sun  ;  then  would 
succeed  a  desolate  tract  of  country,  cheered  only 
by  the  tinkle  of  a  mule-bell,  or  the  song  of  a 
muleteer ;  then  we  would  meet  a  solitary  traveller 
mounted  on  horseback,  and  wrapped  in  the  ample 
folds  of  his  cloak,  with  a  gun  hanging  at  the 
pommel  of  his  saddle.  Occasionally,  too,  among 
the  bleak,  inhospitable  hills,  we  passed  a  rude  little 
chapel,  with  a  cluster  of  ruined  cottages  around 
it;  and  whenever  our  carriage  stopped  at  the 
relay,  or  loitered  slowly  up  the  hillside,  a  crowd 
of  children  would  gather  around  us,  with  little 
images  and  crucifixes  for  sale,  curiously  orna- 


THE   JOURNEY   INTO    SPAIN.  149 

mented  with  ribbons  and  little  bits  cf  tawdry 
finery. 

A  day's  journey  from  the  frontier  brought  us 
to  Vitoria,  where  the  diligence  stopped  for  the 
.•light.  I  spent  the  scanty  remnant  of  daylight 
in  rambling  about  the  streets  of  the  city,  with 
no  other  guide  but  the  whim  of  the  moment. 
Now  I  plunged  down  a  dark  and  narrow  alley, 
now  emerged  into  a  wide  street  or  a  spacious 
market-place,  and  now  aroused  the  drowsy  echoes 
of  a  church  or  cloister  with  the  sound  of  my 
intruding  footsteps.  But  descriptions  of  churches 
and  public  squares  are  dull  and  tedious  matters 
for  those  readers  who  are  in  search  of  amusement, 
and  not  of  instruction  ;  and  if  any  one  has  accom 
panied  me  thus  far  on  my  fatiguing  journey 
towards  the  Spanish  capital,  I  will  readily  excuse 
him  from  the  toil  of  an  evening  ramble  through 
the  streets  of  Vitoria. 

On  the  following  morning,  we  left  the  town,  long 
before  daybreak,  and  during  our  forenoon's  journey 
the  postilion  drew  up  at  an  inn,  on  the  southern 
slope  of  the  Sierra  de  San  Lorenzo,  in  the  province 
of  Old  Castile.  The  house  was  an  old,  dilapidated 
tenement,  built  of  rough  stone,  and  coarsely  plas 
tered  upon  the  outside.  The  tiled  roof  had  long 
been  the  sport  of  wind  and  rain,  the  motley  coal 
of  plaster  was  broken  and  time-worn,  and  the 
whole  building  sadly  out  of  repair ;  thoujjh  thf 
fanciful  mouldings  under  the  eaves,  and  the  curi" 
ously  carved  wood-work^  that  supported  t/' >  little 


150  THE   JOURNEY  INTO   SPADT. 

balcony  over  the  principal  entrance,  spoke  of  bet 
ter  days  gone  by.  The  whole  building  reminded 
me  of  a  dilapidated  Spanish  Don,  down  at  the  heel 
and  out  at  elbows,  but  with  here  and  there  a  rem 
nant  of  former  magnificence  peeping  through  the 
loopholes  of  his  tattered  cloak. 

A  wide  gateway  ushered  the  traveller  into  the 
interior  of  the  building,  and  conducted  him  to  a 
low-roofed  apartment,  paved  with  round  stones, 
and  serving  both  as  a  courtyard  and  a  stable.  It 
seemed  to  be  a  neutral  ground  for  man  and  beast, 
— a  little  republic,  where  horse  and  rider  had  com 
mon  privileges,  and  mule  and  muleteer  lay  cheek 
by  jowl.  In  one  corner  a  poor  jackass  was  patient 
ly  devouring  a  bundle  of  musty  straw, — in  another, 
its  master  lay  sound  asleep,  with  his  saddle-cloth 
for  a  pillow ;  here  a  group  of  muleteers  were  quar 
relling  over  a  pack  of  dirty  cards, — and  there  the 
village  barber,  with  a  self-important  air,  stood  lav 
ing  the  alcalde's  chin  from  the  helmet  of  Mam- 
brino.  On  the  wall,  a  little  taper  glimmered  feebly 
before  an  image  of  St.  Anthony ;  directly  opposite 
these  a  leathern  wine-bottle  hung  by  the  neck  from 
a  pair  of  ox-horns ;  and  the  pavement  below  was 
covered  with  a  curious  medley  of  boxes,  and  bags, 
and  cloaks,  and  pack-saddles,  and  sacks  of  grain, 
and  skins  of  wine,  and  all  kinds  of  lumber. 

A  small  door  upon  the  right  led  us  into  the  iun- 
kitchen.  It  was  a  room  about  ten  feet  square,  and 
literally  all  chimney;  for  the  hearth  was  in  the 
centre  of  the  floor,  and  the  walls  sloped  upward  in 


THE  JOURNEY  INTO    SPAIN.  151 

the  form  of  a  long,  narrow  pyramid,  with  an  open 
ing  at  the  top  for  the  escape  of  the  smoke.  Quite 
round  this  little  room  ran  a  row  of  benches,  upon 
which  sat  one  or  two  grave  personages  smoking 
paper  cigars.  Upon  the  hearth  blazed  a  handful 
of  fagots,  whose  bright  flame  danced  merrily  among 
a  motley  congregation  of  pots  and  kettles,  and  a 
long  wreath  of  smoke  wound  lazily  up  through  the 
huge  tunnel  of  the  roof  above.  The  walls  were 
black  with  soot,  and  ornamented  with  sundry  legs 
of  bacon  and  festoons  of  sausages ;  and  as  there 
were  no  windows  in  this  dingy  abode,  the  only 
light  which  cheered  the  darkness  within  came 
flickering  from  the  fire  upon  the  hearth,  and  the 
smoky  sunbeams  that  peeped  down  the  long-necked 
chimney. 

I  had  not  been  long  seated  by  the  fire,  when  the 
tinkling  of  mule-bells,  the  clatter  of  hoofs,  and  the 
hoarse  voice  of  a  muleteer  in  the  outer  apartment, 
announced  the  arrival  of  new  guests.  A  few  mo 
ments  afterward  the  kitchen-door  opened,  and  a 
person  entered,  whose  appearance  strongly  arrested 
my  attention.  It  was  a  tall,  athletic  figure,  with 
the  majestic  carriage  of  a  grandee,  and  a  dark, 
sunburnt  countenance,  that  indicated  an  age  of 
about  fifty  years.  His  dress  was  singular,  and  such 
as  I  had  not  before  seen.  He  wore  a  round  hat 
with  wide,  flapping  brim,  from  beneath  which  his 
long,  black  hair  hung  in  curls  upon  his  shoulders ; 
a  leather  jerkin,  with  cloth  sleeves,  descended  to 
his  hips ;  around  his  waist  was  closely  buckled  a 


152  THE    JOURNEY    INTO    SPAIN. 

leather  belt,  with  a  cartouch-box  on  one  side ;  a 
pair  of  loose  trousers  of  black  serge  hung  in  ample 
folds  to  the  knees,  around  which  they  were  closely 
gathered  by  embroidered  garters  of  blue  silk  ;  and 
black  broadcloth  leggm?,  buttoned  close  to  the 
calves,  and  strapped  over  a  pair  of  brown  leather 
shoes,  completed  the  singular  dress  of  the  stranger. 
He  doffed  his  hat  as  he  entered,  and,  saluting  the 
company  with  a  "  Dlos  guarde  d  Ustcdes,  caballc- 
ros"  (God  guard  you,  Gentlemen),  took  a  seat  by 
the  fire,  and  entered  into  conversation  with  those 
around  him. 

As  my  curiosity  was  not  a  little  excited  by  the 
peculiar  dress  of  this  person,  I  inquired  of  a  trav 
elling  companion,  who  sat  at  my  elbow,  who  and 
what  this  new-comer  was.  From  him  I  learned 
that  he  was  a  muleteer  of  the  Maragateria, — a 
name  given  to  a  cluster  of  small  towns  which  lie  in 
the  mountainous  country  between  Autorga  and 
Villafranca,  in  the  western  corner  of  the  kingdom 
of  Leon. 

"  Nearly  every  province  in  Spain,"  said  he, 
"  has  its  peculiar  costume,  as  you  will  see,  when 
you  have  advanced  farther  into  our  country.  Fm 
instance,  the  Catalonians  wear  crimson  caps,  hang 
ing  down  upon  the  shoulder  like  a  sack;  wide  pan 
taloons  of  green  velvet,  long  enough  in  the  waist 
band  to  cover  the  whole  breast ;  and  a  little  strip 
of  a  jacket,  made  of  the  same  material,  and  so 
short  as  to  bring  the  pocket  directly  under  the 
armpit.  The  Valencians,  on  *he  contrary,  go 


THE  JOURNEY   INTO    SPAIN.  153 

almost  naked ;  a  linen  shirt,  white  linen  trousers, 
reaching  no  lower  than  the  knees,  and  a  pair  of 
coarse  leather  sandals  complete  their  simple  garb ; 
it  is  only  in  mid-winter  that  they  indulge  in  the 
luxury  of  a  jacket.  The  most  beautiful  and  ex 
pensive  costume,  however,  is  that  of  Andalusia  :  it 
consists  of  a  velvet  jacket,  faced  with  rich  and  vari 
ous  colored  embroidery,  and  covered  with  tassels 
and  silken  cord ;  a  waistcoat  of  some  gay  color ; 
a  silken  handkerchief  round  the  neck,  and  a  crim- 
.  son  sash  round  the  waist ;  breeches  that  button 
down  each  side ;  gaiters  and  shoes  of  white  leather ; 
and  a  handkerchief  of  bright-colored  silk  wound 
about  the  head  like  a  turban,  and  surmounted  by  a 
velvet  cap  or  a  little  round  hat,  with  a  wide  band, 
and  an  abundance  of  silken  loops  and  tassels.  The 
Old  Castilians  are  more  grave  in  their  attire :  they 
wear  a  leather  breastplate  instead  of  a  jacket, 
breeches  and  leggins,  and  a  montera  cap.  This 
fellow  is  a  Maragato ;  and  in  the  villages  of  the 
Mjiragateria  the  costume  varies  a  little  froin  the 
rest  of  Leon  and  Castile." 

"  If  he  is  indeed  a  Maragato,"  said  I,  jestingly, 
"  who  knows  but  he  may  be  a  descendant  of  the 
muleteer  who  behaved  so  naughtily  at  Cacabelos, 
as  related  in  the  second  chapter  of  the  veracious 
history  of  Gil  Bias  de  Santillana  ?  " 

"  $  Quien  sabe  ?  "  was  the  reply.  "  Notwithstand 
ing  the  pride  which  even  the  meanest  Castilian  feels 
in  counting  over  a  long  line  of  good-for-nothing 
ancestors,  the  science  of  genealogy  has  become  of 
late  a  very  intricate  study  in  Spain." 


154  'THE   JOURNEY   INTO    SPAIN. 

Here  our  conversation  was  cut  short  by  the  may 
oral  of  the  diligence,  who  came  to  tell  us  that  the 
mules  were  waiting ;  and  before  many  hours  had 
elapsed,  we  were  scrambling  through  the  square  of 
the  ancient  city  of  Burgos.  On  the  morrow  we 
crossed  the  River  Duero  and  the  Guadarrama 
Mountains,  and  early  in  the  afternoon  entered  the 
"Hwrdica  Villa"  of  Madrid,  by  the  Puerta  de 
Fu->  carral. 


SPAIN. 

Santiago  y  cierra  Espana ! 

SPANISH  WAR-CRT. 

IT  is  a  beautiful  morning  in  June ; — so  beautiful, 
that  I  almost  fancy  myself  in  Spain.  The  tessel- 
ated  shadow  of  the  honeysuckle  lies  motionless 
upon  the  floor,  as  if  it  were  a  figure  in  the  carpet ; 
and  through  the  open  window  comes  the  fragrance 
of  the  wild-brier  and  the  mock-orange,  reminding 
me  of  that  soft,  sunny  clime  where  the  very  air  is 
laden,  like  the  bee,  with  sweetness,  and  the  south 
wind 

"  Comes  over  gardens,  and  the  flowers 
That  kissed  it  are  betrayed." 

The  birds  are  carolling  in  the  trees,  and  their 
shadows  flit  across  the  window  as  they  dart  to  and 
fro  in  the  sunshine ;  while  the  murmur  of  the  bee, 
the  cooing  of  doves  from  the  eaves,  and  the  whir 
ling  of  a  little  humming-bird  that  has  its  nest  in 
the  honeysuckle,  send  up  a  sound  of  joy  to  meet 
the  rising  sun.  How  like  the  climate  of  the  South ! 
How  like  a  summer  morning  in  Spain  ! 

My  recollections  of  Spain  are  of  the  most  lively 
aud  delightful  kind.  The  character  of  the  soil 


156  SPAJX. 

and  of  its  inhabitants, — the  stormy  mountains  and 
free  spirits  of  the  North, — the  prodigal  luxuriance 
and  gay  voluptuousness  of  the  South, — the  history 
and  traditions  of  the  past,  resembling  more  the 
fables  of  romance  than  the  solemn  chronicle  of 
events, — a  soft  and  yet  majestic  language  that  falls 
like  martial  music  on  the  ear,  and  a  literature  rich 
in  the  attractive  lore  of  poetry  and  fiction, — these, 
but  not  these  alone,  are  my  reminiscences  of  Spain. 
With  these  I  recall  the  thousand  little  circum 
stances  and  enjoyments  which  always  give  a  col 
oring  to  our  recollections  of  the  past;  the  clear 
sky, — the  pure,  balmy  air, — the  delicious  fruits  and 
flowers, — the  wild-fig  and  the  aloe, — the  palm-tree 
and  the  olive  by  the  wayside, — all,  all  that  makes 
existence  so  joyous,  and  renders  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  that  clime  the  children  of  impulse  and 
sensation. 

As  I  write  these  words,  a  shade  of  sadness  steals 
over  me.  When  I  think  what  that  glorious  land 
might  be,  and  what  it  is, — what  Nature  intended  it 
should  be,  and  what,  man  has  made  it, — my  very 
heart  sinks  within  me.  My  mind  instinctively 
reverts  from  the  degradation  of  the  present  to  the 
glory  of  the  past ;  or,  looking  forward  with  strong 
misgivings,  but  with  yet  stronger  hopes,  inter 
rogates  the  future. 

The  burnished  armor  of  the  Cid  stands  in  tho 
archives  of  the  royal  museum  of  Madrid,  and  there, 
too,  is  seen  the  armor  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabel, 
of  Guzman  the  Good  and  Gonzalo  de  Cordova, 


SPAIN.  157 

and  of  other  early  champions  of  Spain ;  but  what 
hand  shall  now  wield  the  sword  of  the  Campeador, 
or  lift  up  the  banner  of  Leon  and  Castile  ?  The 
ruins  of  Christian  castle  and  Moorish  alcazar  still 
look  forth  from  the  hills  of  Spain ;  but  where,  O, 
where  is  the  spirit  of  freedom  that  once  fired  the 
ch'ldren  of  the  Goth  ?  Where  is  the  spirit  of 
Bernardo  del  Carpio,  and  Perez  de  Vargas,  and 
Alonzo  de  Aguilar  ?  Shall  it  forever  sleep  ?  Shall 
it  never  again  beat  high  in  the  hearts  of  their  de 
generate  sons  ?  Shall  the  descendants  of  Pelayo 
bow  forever  beneath  an  iron  yoke,  "  like  cattle 
whose  despair  is  dumb  ?  " 

The  dust  of  the  Cid  lies  mingling  with  the  dust 
of  Old  Castile  ;  but  his  spirit  is  not  buried  with  his 
ashes.  It  sleeps,  but  is  not  dead.  The  day  will 
come,  when  the  foot  of  the  tyrant  shall  be  shaken 
from  the  neck  of  Spain ;  when  a  brave  and  gen 
erous  people,  though  now  ignorant,  degraded,  and 
much  abused,  shall  "  know  their  rights,  and  knoAv- 
ing  dare  maintain." 

Of  the  national  character  of  Spain  I  have 
brought  away  this  impression ;  that  its  prominent 
traits  are  a  generous  pride  of  birth,  a  superstitious 
devotion  to  the  dogmas  of  the  Church,  and  an  in 
nate  dignity,  which  exhibits  itself  even  in  the  com 
mon  and  evcry-day  employments  of  life.  Castilian 
pride  is  proverbial.  A  beggar  wraps  his  tattered 
cloak  around  him  with  all  the  dignity  of  a  Roman 
senator;  and  a  muleteer  bestrides  his  beast  of 
burden  with  the  air  of  a  jrrandee. 


158  SPAIN. 

I  have  thought,  too,  that  there  was  a  tinge  of 
sadness  in  the  Spanish  character.  The  national 
music  of  the  land  is  remarkable  for  its  melancholy 
tone ;  and  at  times  the  voice  of  a  peasant,  singing 
amid  the  silence  and  solitude  of  the  mountains, 
falls  upon  the  ear  like  a  funeral  chant.  Even  a 
Spanish  holiday  wears  a  look  of  sadness, — a  cir 
cumstance  which  some  writers  attribute  to  the 
cruel  and  overbearing  spirit  of  the  municipal  laws. 
"  On  the  greatest  festivals,"  says  Jovellanos,  "  in 
stead  of  that  boisterous  merriment  and  noise  which 
should  bespeak  the  joy  of  the  inhabitants,  there 
reigns  throughout  the  streets  and  market-places  a 
slothful  inactivity,  a  gloomy  stillness,  which  cannot 
be  remarked  without  mingled  emotions  of  surprise 
and  pity.  The  few  persons  who  leave  their  houses 
seem  to  be  driven  from  them  by  listlessness,  and 
dragged  as  far  as  the  threshold,  the  market,  or  the 
church-door ;  there,  muffled  in  their  cloaks,  lean 
ing  against  a  corner,  seated  on  a  bench,  or  loung 
ing  to  and  fro,  without  object,  aim,  or  purpose, 
they  pass  their  hours,  their  whole  evenings,  with 
out  mirth,  recreation,  or  amusement.  When  you 
add  to  this  picture  the  dreariness  and  filth  of  the 
villages,  the  poor  and  slovenly  dress  of  the  inhabi 
tants,  the  gloominess  and  silence  of  their  air,  the 
laziness,  the  want  of  concert  and  union  so  striking 
everywhere,  who  but  would  be  astonished,  who 
but  would  be  afflicted  by  so  mournful  a  phenome 
non  ?  This  is  not,  indeed,  the  place  to  expose  the 
errors  which  conspire  to  produce,  it ;  but,  whatever 


SPAIN.  139 

those  errors  may  be,  one  point  is  clear, — that  they 
are  all  to  be  found  in  the  laws  !  "  * 

Of  the  same  serious,  sombre  character  is  the 
favorite  national  sport, — the  bull-fight.  It  is  a 
barbarous  amusement,  but  of  all  others  the  most 
exciting,  the  most  spirit-stirring;  and  in  Spain,  the 
most  popular.  "  If  Rome  lived  content  with  brcal 
and  arms,"  says  the  author  I  have  just  quoted,  in  a 
spirited  little  discourse  entitled  Pan  y  Torox, 
"  Madrid  lives  content  with  bread  and  bulls." 

Shall  I  describe  a  Spanish  bull-fight  ?  No.  Tt 
lias  been  so  often  and  so  well  described  by  other 
pens  that  mine  shall  not  undertake  it,  'though  it  is 
a  tempting  theme.  I  cannot,  however,  refuse 
myself  the  pleasure  of  quoting  here  a  few  lines 
from  one  of  the  old  Spanish  ballads  upon  this 
subject.  It  is  entitled  "  The  Bull-fight  of  Ganzul." 
The  description  of  the  bull,  which  is  contained  in 
the  passage  I  here  extract,  is  drawn  with  a  master's 
hand.  It  is  rather  a  paraphrase  than  a  translation, 
by  Mr.  Lockhart. 

"  From  Guadiana  comes  he  not,  he  comes  not  from  Xenil, 
From  Guadalarif  of  the  plain,  nor  Barves  of  the  hill ; 
Hut  where  from  out  the  forest  burst  Xarama's  waters 

clear, 
Beneath  the  oak-trees  was  he  nursed,  this  proiid  and 

stately  steer. 


*  Informe  dado  &  la  Real  Acadcmia  de  Historia  sobre  Juegos, 
Especfciculos,  y  Diversiones  Publicas. 


IGO 


"  Dark  is  his  hide  on  either  side,  but  the  blood  within 

doth  boil, 
And  the  dun  hide  glows,  as  if  on  fire,  as  he  paws  to  tho 

turmoil. 

His  eyes  are  jet,  and  they  are  set  in  crystal  rings  of  sno\7 ; 
But  now  they  stare  with  one  red  glaro  of  brass  upon  tho 

foe. 

"  Upon  the  forehead  of  the  bull  the  horns  stand  close  an  1 

near, 
From  out  the  broad  and  wrinkled  skull  like  daggers  they 

appear ; 
His  neck  is  massy,  like  the  trunk  of  some  old,  knotted 

tree, 
Whereon  the  monster's  shaggy  mane,  like  billows  curled, 

ye  see. 

"  His  legs  are  short,  his  hams  are  thick,  his  hoofs  are 

black  as  night; 
Like  a  strong  flail  he  holds  his  tail,  in  fierceness  of  his 

might ; 
Like  something  molten  out  of  iron,  or  hewn  from  forth 

the  rock, 
Harpado  of  Xarama  stands,  to  bide  the  Alciyde's  shock. 

"Now  stops  the  drum,— close,  close  they  come;   thrico 

meet  and  thrice  give  back; 
The  white  foam  of  Harpado  lies  on  the  charger's  breast 

of  black; 
The  white  foam  of  the  charger  on  Harpado's  front  of 

dun; — 
Once  more  advance  upon  his  lance, — once  more,  thou 

fearless  one! " 

There  are  various  circumstances  closely  con 
nected   with   the   train   of   thought   I   have   here 


SPAIN-  161 

touched  upon ;  but  I  forbear  to  mention  them,  for 
fear  of  drawing  out  this  introductory  chapter  to 
too  great  a  length.  Some  of  them  will  naturally 
find  a  place  hereafter.  Meanwhile  let  us  turn  the 
leaf  to  a  new  chapter,  and  to  subjects  of  a  livelier 
nature. 


voi*  i.  11 


A  TAILOR'S   DRAWER. 


Nedyls  threde,  thyiubell,  shers,  and  all  suche  knackes. 

TUB  Foca  I't 


A  TAILOU'S  drawer,  did  you  say  ? 

Yes ;  a  tailor's  drawer  It  is,  indeed,  rather  a 
quaint  rubric  for  a  chapter  in  the  pilgrim's  brev 
iary  ;  albeit  it  well  befits  the  motley  character  of 
the  following  pages.  It  is  a  title  which  the  Span 
iards  give  to  a  desultory  discourse,  wherein  various 
and  discordant  themes  are  touched  upon,  and 
which  is  crammed  full  of  little  shreds  and  patches 
of  erudition ;  and  certainly  it  is  not  inappropriate 
to  a  chapter  whose  contents  are  of  every  shapo 
and  hue,  and  "  do  no  more  adhere  and  keep  pace 
together  than  the  hundreth  psalm  to  the  tune  of 
Green  Sleeves." 

ii. 

IT  is  recorded  in  the  Adventures  of  Gil  Bias  de 
Santillana,  that,  when  this  renowned  personage 
first  visited  the  city  of  Madrid,  he  took  lodgings  at 
the  house  of  Mateo  Mclandcz,  in  the  Puerta  del 
Sol.  In  choosing  a  place  of  abode  in  the  Spanish 
court,  I  followed,  as  far  as  practicable,  this  illus 
trious  example;  but,  as  the  kind-hearted  Mateo 


A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER.  103 

had  been  long  gathered  to  his  fathers,  I  was  con 
tent  to  take  up  my  residence  in  the  hired  house  of 
Valentin  Gonzalez,  at  the  foot  of  the  Calle  de  la 
Moutera.  My  apartments  were  in  the  third  story. 
above  the  dust,  though  not  beyond  the  rattle,  of 
the  street ;  and  my  balconies  looked  down  into  tho 
Puerta  del  Sol,  the  heart  of  Madrid,  through  which 
circulates  the  living  current  of  its  population  at 
least  once  every  twenty-four  hours. 

The  Puerta  del  Sol  is  a  public  square,  from 
which  diverge  the  five  principal  streets  of  the 
metropolis.  It  is  the  great  rendezvous  of  grave 
and  gay, — of  priest  and  layman, — of  gentle  and 
simple, — the  mart  of  business  and  of  gossip, — the 
place  where  the  creditor  seeks  his  debtor,  where 
the  lawyer  seeks  his  client,  where  the  stranger 
seeks  amusement,  where  the  friend  seeks  his  friend, 
and  the  foe  his  foe ;  where  the  idler  seeks  the  sun 
in  winter,  and  the  shade  in  summer,  and  the  busy 
body  seeks  the  daily  news,  and  picks  up  the 
crumbs  of  gossip  to  fly  away  with  them  in  his  beak 
to  the  terlulia  of  Dona  Paquita  ! 

Tell  me,  ye  who  have  sojourned  in  foreign  lands, 
and  know  in  what  bubbles  a  traveller's  happiness 
consists, — is  it  not  a  blessing  to  have  your  window 
overlook  a  scene  like  this  ? 

in. 

THERE, — take  that  chair  upon  the  balcony,  and 
let  us  look  down  upon  the  busy  scene  beneath  us. 
What  a  continued  roar  the  crowded  thoroughfare 


16-i  A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER. 

Bends  up !  Though  three  stories  high,  we  can 
hardly  hear  the  sound  of  our  own  voices !  Tho 
London  cries  are  whispers,  when  compared  with 
the  cries  of  Madrid. 

See, — yonder,  stalks  a  gigantic  peasant  of  New 
Castile,  with  a  montera  cap,  brown  jacket  and 
breeches,  and  coarse  blue  stockings^  forcing  his 
way  through  the  crowd,  and  leading  a  donkey 
laden  with  charcoal,  whose  sonorous  bray  is  in 
unison  with  the  harsh  voice  of  his  master.  Close 
at  his  elbow  goes  a  rosy-cheeked  damsel,  selling 
calico.  She  is  an  Asturian  from  the  mountains 
of  Santander.  How  do  you  know  ?  By  her  short 
yellow  petticoats, — her  blue  bodice, — her  coral 
necklace  and  earrings.  Through  the  middle  of 
the  square  struts  a  peasant  of  Old  Castile,  with 
his  yellow  leather  jerkin  strapped  about  his  waist, 
— his  brown  leggins  and  his  blue  garters, — driving 
before  him  a  flock  of  gabbling  turkeys,  and  crying, 
at  the  top  of  his  voice,  "  Pao,  pao,  pavitos,  paos  ! " 
Next  comes  a  Valencian,  with  his  loose  linen 
trousers  and  sandal  shoon,  holding  a  huge  sack  of 
watermelons  upon  his  shoulder  with  his  left  hand, 
and  with  his  right  balancing  high  in  air  a  specimen 
of  his  luscious  fruit,  upon  which  is  perched  a  little 
pyramid  of  the  crimson  pulp,  while  he  tempts  the 
passers-by  with  "A  cala,  y  calando ;  una  sandia 
vendo-o-o.  Si  esto  es  sangre!"  (By  the  slice, — 
come  and  try  it, — watermelon  for  sale.  This  is 
the  real  blood  !)  His  companion  near  him  has  a 
pair  of  scales  thrown  over  his  shoulder,  and 


A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER.  1G5 

both  arms  full  of  muskmelons.  He  chimes  into 
the  harmonious  ditty  with  "  Melo — melo-o-o — 
meloncitos ;  aqui  estd  el  azucar  ! "  (Melons,  mel 
ons  ;  here  is  the  real  sugar !)  Behind  them  creeps 
a  slow-moving  Asturian,  in  heavy  wooden  shoes, 
crying  watercresses ;  and  a  peasant  woman  from 
the  Guadarrama  Mountains,  with  a  montera  cocked 
up  in  front,  and  a  blue  kerchief  tied  under  her 
chin,  swings  in  each  hand  a  bunch  of  live  chick 
en^ — that  hang  by  the  claws,  head  downwards, 
fluttering,  scratching,  crowing  with  all  their  might, 
while  the  good  woman  tries  to  drown  their  voices 
in  the  discordant  cry  of  u ^Quien  me  compra  un 
yallo, — un  par  de  gailinas?"  (Who  buys  a  cock, 
—a  pair  of  fowls  ?)  That  tall  fellow  in  blue,  with 
a  pot  of  flowers  upon  his  shoulder,  is  a  wag,  beyond 
all  dispute.  See  how  cunningly  he  cocks  his  eye 
up  at  us,  and  cries,  "  Si  yo  tuviera  lalcon  !  "  (If  I 
only  had  a  balcony !) 

What  next  ?  A  Manchego  with  a  sack  of  oil 
under  his  arm;  a  Gallego  with  a  huge  water-jar 
upon  his  shoulders ;  an  Italian  peddler  with  images 
of  saints  and  madonnas ;  a  razor-grinder  with  his 
wheel;  a  mender  of  pots  and  kettles,  making 
music,  as  he  goes,  with  a  shovel  and  a  frying-pan  •, 
and,  in  fine,  a  noisy,  patchwork,  ever-changing 
crowd,  whose  discordant  cries  mingle  with  the 
rumbling  of  wheels,  the  clatter  of  hoofs,  and  the 
clang  of  church-bells;  and  make  the  Puerta  del 
Sol,  at  certain  hours  of  the  day,  like  a  street  in 
Babylon  the  Great. 


166  A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER. 


IV. 

CHITON  !  A  beautiful  girl,  with  flaxen  hair, 
blue  eyes,  and  the  form  of  a  fairy  in  a  midsummer 
night's  dream,  has  just  stepped  out  on  the  balcony 
beneatli  us  !  See  how  coquettishly  she  crosses  her 
arms  upon  the  balcony,  thrusts  her  dainty  little 
foot  through  the  bars,  and  plays  with  her  slipper ! 
She  is  an  Andalusian,  from  Malaga.  Her  brother 
is  a  bold  dragoon,  and  wears  a  long  sword ;  so 
beware !  and  "  let  not  the  creaking  of  shoes  and 
the  rustling  of  silks  betray  thy  poor  heart  to 
woman."  Her  mother  is  a  vulgar  woman,  "fat 
and  forty " ;  eats  garlic  in  her  salad,  and  smoke.* 
cigars.  But  mind!  that  is  a  secret;  I  tell  it  t<* 
you  in  confidence. 

v. 

THE  following  little  ditty  I  translate  from  tl* 
Spanish.  It  is  as  delicate  as  a  dew-drop. 

She  is  a  maid  of  artless  grace, 
Gentle  in  form,  and  fair  of  face. 

Tell  me,  thou  ancient  mariner, 

That  sailest  on  the  sea, 
If  ship,  or  sail,  or  evening  star 

Be  half  so  fair  as  she ! 

Tell  me,  thou  gallant  cavalier, 

Whose  shining  arms  I  see, 
If  steed,  or  sword,  or  battle-field 

Be  half  so  fair  as  she ! 


A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER.  167 

Tell  me,  thon  swain,  that  guard'st  thy  flock 

Beneath  the  shadowy  tree, 
If  flock,  or  vale,  or  mountain-ridge 

Be  half  so  fair  as  she ! 


VI. 

A  MILLER  lias  just  passed  by,  covered  with  flour 
from  head  to  foot,  and  perched  upon  the  tip  end 
of  a  little  donkey,  crying  "Arre  borrico  !  "  and  at 
every  cry  swinging  a  cudgel  in  his  hand,  and 
giving  the  ribs  of  the  poor  beast  what  in  the  vulgar 
dialect  is  called  a  cachiporrazo.  I  could  not  help 
laughing,  though  I  felt  provoked  with  the  fellow 
for  his  cruelty.  The  truth  is,  I  have  great  regard 
for  a  jackass.  His  meekness,  and  patience,  and 
long-suffering  are  very  amiable  qualities,  and,  con 
sidering  his  situation,  worthy  of  all  praise.  In 
Spain,  a  donkey  plays  as  conspicuous  a  part  as  a 
priest  or  a  village  alcalde.  There  would  be  no 
getting  along  without  him.  And  yet,  who  so 
beaten  and  abused  as  he  ? 

VII. 

HERE  comes  a  gay  gallant,  with  white  kid 
gloves,  a  quizzing-glass,  a  black  cane,  with  a  white 
ivory  pommel,  and  a  little  hat,  cocked  pertly  on 
one  side  of  his  head.  He  is  an  exquisite  fop,  and 
a  great  lady's  man.  You  will  always  find  him  on 
the  Prado  at  sunset,  when  the  crowd  and  dust  are 
thickest,  ogling  through  his  glass,  flourishing  his 
cane,  and  humming  between  his  teeth  some  favorite 


1C8  A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER. 

air  of  the  Semiramis,  or  the  Barber  of  Seville 
He  is  a  great  amateur,  and  patron  of  the  Italian 
Opera, — beats  time  with  his  cane, — nods  his  head, 
and  cries,  Bravo ! — and  fancies  himself  in  love 
with  the  Prima  Donna.  The  height  of  his  ambi 
tion  is  to  be  thought  the  gay  Lothario, — the  gallant 
Don  Cortejo  of  his  little  sphere.  He  is  a  poet 
withal,  and  daily  besieges  the  heart  of  the  cruel 
Doiia  Inez  with  sonnets  and  madrigals.  She  turns 
a  deaf  ear  to  his  song,  and  is  inexorable  : — 

"  Mas  quo  no  sea  mas  piadosa 
A  dos  escudos  en  prosa, 
No  puede  ser." 


VIII. 

WHAT  a  contrast  between  this  personage  and 
the  sallow,  emaciated  being  who  is  now  crossing 
the  street !  It  is  a  barefooted  Carmelite, — a  monk 
of  an  austere  order, — wasted  by  midnight  vigils 
and  long  penance.  Abstinence  is  written  on  that 
pale  cheek,  and  the  bowed  head  and  downcast  eye 
are  in  accordance  with  the  meek  profession  of  a 
mendicant  brotherhood. 

What  is  this  world  to  thee,  thou  man  of  peni 
tence  and  prayer  ?  What  hast  thou  to  do  with  all 
this  busy,  turbulent  scene  about  thee, — with  all  the 
noise,  and  gayety,  and  splendor  of  this  thronged 
city?  Nothing.  The  wide  world  gives  thee 
nothing,  save  thy  daily  crust,  thy  crucifix,  thy 
eonvent-cell,  thy  pallet  of  straw !  Pilgrim  of 


A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER.  169 

heaven  !  thou  hast  no  home  on  earth.  Thou  art 
journeying  onward  to  "  a  house  not  made  with 
hands";  and,  like  the  first  apostles  of  thy  faith, 
thou  takest  neither  gold,  nor  silver,  nor  brass,  nor 
scrip  for  thy  journey.  Thou  hast  shut  thy  heart 
to  the  endearments  of  earthly  love, — thy  shoulder 
beareth  not  the  burden  with  thy  fellow-man, — in 
all  this  vast  crowd  thou  hast  no  friends,  no  hopes, 
no  sympathies.  Thou  standest  aloof  from  man, — 
and  art  thou  nearer  God  V  I  know  not.  Thy 
motives,  thy  intentions,  thy  desires  are  registered  in 
heaven.  I  am  thy  fellow-man, — and  not  thy  judge. 
"  Who  is  the  greater  ?  "  says  the  German  moral 
ist;  "the  wise  man  who  lifts  himseli  above  the 
storms  of  time,  and  from  aloof  looks  down  upon 
them,  and  yet  takes  no  part  therein, — or  he  who 
from  the  height  of  quiet  and  repose  throws  himself 
boldly  into  the  battle-tumult  of  the  world  ?  Glori 
ous  is  it,  when  the  eagle  through  the  beating 
tempest  flies  into  the  bright  blue  heaven  upward  ; 
but  far  more  glorious,  when,  poising  in  the  blue 
sky  over  the  black  storm-abyss,  he  plunges  down 
ward  to  his  aerie  on  the  cliff,  where  cower  his 
unfledged  brood,  and  tremble." 

IX. 

SULTRY  grows  the  day,  and  breathless  !  The 
lately  crowded  street  is  silent  and  deserted, — 
hardly  a  footfall, — hardly  here  and  there  a  solU 
tary  figure  stealing  along  in  the  narrow  strip 
of  shade  beneath  the  eaves !  Silcrt,  too,  and 


170  A    TAIL  Oil's    DRAWER. 

deserted  is  the  Puerta  del  Sol;  so  silent,  that 
even  at  this  distance  the  splashing  of  its  foun 
tain  is  distinctly  audible, — so  deserted,  that  not 
a  living  thing  is  visible  there,  save  the  out 
stretched  and  athletic  form  of  a  Galician  water- 
carrier,  who  lies  asleep  upon  the  pavement  in  tho 
cool  shadow  of  the  fountain  !  Th'ere  is  not  air 
enough  to  stir  the  leaves  of  the  jasmine  upon  tho 
balcony,  or  break  the  thin  column  of  smoke  that 
issues  from  the  cigar  of  Don  Diego,  master  of  the 
noble  Spanish  tongue,  y  hombre  de  muclios  dingo- 
fandangos.  He  sits  bolt  upright  between  the 
window  and  the  door,  with  the  collar  of  his  snufF- 
colored  frock  thrown  back  upon  his  shoulders,  and 
his  toes  turned  out  like  a  dancing-master,  poring 
over  the  Diario  de  A  fad  rid,  to  learn  how  high  the 
thermometer  rose  yesterday, — what  patron  saint 
has  a  festival  to-day, — and  at  what  hour  to-morrow 
the  "King  of  Spain,  Jerusalem,  and  the  Canary 
Islands"  will  take  his  departure  for  the  gardens 
of  Aranjuez. 

You  have   a  proverb  in   your  language,  Don 
Diego,  which  says, — 

"  Despues  de  comer 

Ni  un  sobrescrito  leer"; — 

after  dinner  read  not  even  the  superscription  of 
a  letter.  I  shall  obey,  and  indulge  in  the  ex 
quisite  luxury  of  a  siesta.  I  confess  that  I  lovo 
this  after-dinner  nap.  If  I  have  a  gift,  a  vocation 


A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER.  171 

for  any  thing,  it  is  for  sleeping;    and  from  my 
heart  I  can  say  with  honest  Sancho,  "  Blessed  be 
the  man  that  first  invented  sleep  ! "    In  a  sultry 
clime,  too,  where  the  noontide  heat  unmans  you, 
and   the  cool  starry  night  seems   made   for   any 
fching  but  slumber,  I  am  willing  to  barter  an  hour 
•ir  two  of  intense  daylight  for  an  hour  or  two  of 
ranquil,  lovely,  dewy  night ! 
Therefore,  Don  Diego,  liasta  la  vista  ! 

x. 

IT  is  evening ;  the  day  is  gone  ;  fast  gather  and 
deepen  the  shades  of  twilight !  In  the  words  of  a 
German  allegory,  "  The  babbling  day  has  touched 
the  hem  of  night's  garment,  and,  weary  and  still, 
drops  asleep  in  her  bosom." 

The  city  awakens  from  its  slumber.  The  con 
vent-bells  ring  solemnly  and  slow.  The  streets 
are  thronged  again.  Once  more  I  hear  the  shrill 
cry,  the  rattling  wheel,  the  murmur  of  the  crowd. 
The  blast  of  a  trumpet  sounds  from  the  Puerta 
del  Sol, — then  the  tap  of  a  drum;  a  mounted 
guard  opens  the  way, — the  crowd  doff  their  hats, 
and  the  king  sweeps  by  in  a  gilded  coach  drawn 
by  six  horses,  and  followed  by  a  long  train  of  un 
couth,  antiquated  vehicles  drawn  by  mules. 

The  living  tide  now  sets  towards  the  Prado, 
and  the  beautiful  gardens  of  the  Retiro.  Beauti 
ful  are  they  at  this  magic  hour  !  Beautiful,  with 
the  almond-tree  in  blossom,  with  the  broad  green 
leaves  of  the  sycamore  and  the  chestnut,  with  tho 


172  A  TAILOR'S  DRAWER. 

fragrance  of  the  orange  and  the  lemon,  with  the 
beauty  of  a  thousand  flowers,  with  the  soothing 
calm  and  the  dewy  freshness  of  evening  ! 

XI. 

I  LOVE  to  linger  on  the  Prado  till  the  crowd  is 
gone  and  the  night  far  advanced.  There  musing 
and  alone  I  sit,  and  listen  to  the  lulling  fall  of 
•waters  in  their  marble  fountains,  and  watch  the 
moon  as  it  rises  over  the  gardens  of  the  Retiro, 
brighter  than  a  northern  sun.  The  beautiful 
scene  lies  half  in  shadow,  half  in  light, — almost 
a  fairy  -land.  Occasionally  the  sound  of  a  guitar, 
or  a  distant  voice,  breaks  in  upon  my  rcvcry. 
Then  the  form  of  a  monk,  from  the  neighbouring 
convent,  sweeps  by  me  like  a  shadow,  and  dis 
appears  in  the  gloom  of  the  leafy  avenues ;  and 
far  away  from  the  streets  of-  the  city  comes  the 
voice  of  the  watchman  telling  the  midnight  hour. 

Lovely  art  thou,  O  Night,  beneath  the  skies 
of  Spain!  Day,  panting  with  heat,  and  laden 
with  a  thousand  cares,  toils  onward  like  a  beast 
of  burden  ;  but  Night,  calm,  silent,  holy  Night, 
is  a  ministering  angel  that  cools  with  its  dewy 
breath  the  toil-heated  brow ;  and,  like  the  Roman 
sisterhood,  stoops  down  to  bathe  the  pilgrim's  feet. 
How  grateful  is  the  starry  twilight!  How  grateful 
the  gentle  radiance  of  the  moon  !  How  grateful 
the  delicious  coolness  of  "the  omnipresent  and 
deep-breathing  air!"  Lovely  art  thou,  O  Night, 
beneath  the  skies  of  Spain  ! 


ANCIENT   SPANISH  BALLADS. 


I  IOTC  a  ballad  but  even  too  well,  if  it  be  doleful  matter 
merrily  set  down,  or  a  very  pleasant  thing  indeed,  and  sung 
lamentably.  WINTER'S  TALE. 

How  universal  is  the  love  of  poetry !  Every 
nation  has  its  popular  songs,  the  offspring  of  a 
credulous  simplicity  and  an  unschooled  fancy. 
The  peasant  of  the  North,  as  ho  sits  by  the 
evening  fire,  sings  the  traditionary  ballad  to  his 
children, — 

"  Nor  wants  he  gleeful  tales,  while  round 
The  nut-brown  bowl  doth  trot." 

The  peasant  of  the  South,  as  he  lies  at  noon  in 
the  shade  of  the  sycamore,  or  sits  by  his  door 
in  the  evening  twilight,  sings  his  amorous  lay,  and 
listlessly, 

"  On  hollow  quills  of  oaten  straw, 
He  pipeth  melody." 

The  muleteer  of  Spain  carols  with  the  early  lark, 
amid  the  stormy  mountains  of  his  native  land. 
The  vintager  of  Sicily  has  his  evening  hymn  ;  the 
fisherman  of  Naples  his  boat-song ;  the  gondolier 


17-i  ANCIENT   SPANISH   BALLADS. 

of  Venice  his  midnight  serenade.  The  goatherd  of 
Switzerland  and  the  Tyrol, — the  Carpathian  boor, 
— the  Scotch  Highlander, — the  English  ploughboy, 
singing  as  he  drives  his  team  afield, — peasant, — 
serf, — slave, — all,  all  have  their  ballads  and  tra 
ditionary  songs.  Music  is  the  universal  language 
of  mankind, — poetry  their  universal  pastime  and 
delight. 

The  ancient  ballads  of  Spain  hold  a  prominent 
rank  in  her  literary  history.  Their  number  is 
truly  astonishing,  and  may  \vell  startle  the  most 
enthusiastic  lover  of  popular  song.  The  Ro- 
mancero  General*  contains  upwards  of  a  thou 
sand  ;  and  though  upon  many  of  these  may  justly 
be  bestowed  the  encomium  which  honest  Izaak 
Walton  pronounces  upon  the  old  English  ballad  of 
the  Passionate  Shepherd, — "  old-fashioned  poetry, 
but  choicely  good," — yet,  as  a  whole,  they  are, 
perhaps,  more  remarkable  for  their  number  than 
for  their  beauty.  Every  great  historic  event, 
every  marvellous  tradition,  has  its  popular  ballad. 
Don  Roderick,  Bernardo  del  Carpio,  and  the  Cid 
Campeador,  are  not  more  the  heroes  of  ancient 
chronicle  than  of  ancient  song;  and  the  imaginary 
champions  of  Christendom,  the  twelve  peers  of 
Charlemagne,  have  found  a  historian  in  the  wan 
dering  ballad-singer  no  less  authentic  than  the 
good  Archbishop  Turpin. 

Most  of  these  ancient  ballads  had  their  origin 

•Romancero  General,  en  que  se  oontk-ne  todos  los  Roraanrta 
que  audun  impresos.  4to.  Madrid,  1004. 


ANCIENT    SPANISH    BALLADS.  175 

during  the  dominion  of  the  Moors  in  Spain. 
Many  of  them,  doubtless,  are  nearly  as  old  as  the 
events  they  celebrate ;  though  in  their  present 
form  the  greater  part  belong  to  the  fourteenth 
century.  The  language  in  which  they  are  now 
preserved  indicates  no  higher  antiquity  ;  but  who 
shall  say  how  long  they  had  been  handed  down 
by  tradition,  ere  they  were  taken  from  the  lips 
of  the  wandering  minstrel,  and  recorded  in  a  more 
permanent  form  ? 

The  seven  centuries  of  the  Moorish  sovereignty 
in  Spain  are  the  heroic  ages  of  her  history  and  her 
poetry.  What  the  warrior  achieved  with  his 
sword  the  minstrel  published  in  his  song.  The 
character  of  those  ages  is  seen  in  the  character 
of  their  literature.  History  casts  its  shadow  far 
into  the  land  of  song.  Indeed,  the  most  prominent 
characteristic  of  the  ancient  Spanish  ballads  is 
their  warlike  spirit.  They  shadow  forth  the 
majestic  lineaments  of  the  warlike  ages ;  and 
through  every  line  breathes  a  high  and  peculiar 
tone  of  chivalrous  feeling.  It  is  not  the  piping 
sound  of  peace,  but  a  blast, — a  loud,  long  blast 
from  the  war-horn, — 

"  A  trump  with  a  stern  breath, 
Which  is  cleped  the  trump  of  death." 

And  with  this  mingles  the  voice  of  lamentation, — 
the  requiem  for  the  slain,  with  a  melancholy  sweet 
ness  : — 


176  ANCIENT    SPANISH    1JALLAD9. 

Rio  Verde,  Rio  Verde  1 
Many  a  corpse  is  bathed  in  thee, 

Both  of  Moors  and  eke  of  Christians, 
Slain  with  swords  most  cruelly. 

And  thy  pure  and  crystal  waters 

Dappled  are  with  crimson  gore; 
For  between  the  Moors  and  Christians 

Long  has  been  the  fight  and  sore. 

Dukes  and  counts  fell  bleeding  near  thee. 

Lords  of  high  renown  were  slain, 
Perished  many  a  brave  hidalgo 

Of  the  noblemen  of  Spain. 

"  Another  prominent  characteristic  of  these  an 
cient  ballads  is  their  energetic  and  beautiful  sim 
plicity.  A  great  historic  event  is  described  in  the 
fewest  possible  words;  there  is  no  ornament,  no 
artifice.  The  poet's  intention  was  to  narrate, 
not  to  embellish.  It  is  truly  wonderful  to  observe 
what  force,  and  beauty,  and  dramatic  power  are 
given  to  the  old  romances  by  this  single  circum 
stance.  When  Bernardo  del  Carpio  leads  forth 
his  valiant  Leonese  against  the  hosts  of -Charle 
magne,  he  animates  their  courage  by  alluding  to 
their  battles  with  the  Moors,  and  exclaims,  "  Shall 
the  lions  that  have  bathed  their  paws  in  Libyan 
gore  now  crouch  before  the  Frank  ?  "  When  he 
enters  the  palace  of  the  treacherous  Alfonso,  to 
upbraid  him  for  a  broken  promise,  and  the  king 
orders  him  to  be  arrested  for  contumely,  he  lays 
his  hand  upon  his  sword  and  cries,  "  Let  no  one 
Btir  !  I  am  Bernardo ;  and  my  sword  is  not  sub- 


ANCIENT   SPANISH   BALLADS.  177 

ject  even  to  kings ! "  When  the  Count  Alarcos 
prepares  to  put  to  death  his  own  wife  at  the  king's 
command,  she  submits  patiently  to  her  fate,  asks 
time  to  say  a  prayer,  and  then  exclaims,  "Now 
bring  me  my  infant  boy,  that  I  may  give  him  suck, 
as  my  last  farewell!"  Is  there  in  Homer  an 
incident  more  touching,  or  more  true  to  nature  ? 

The  ancient  Spanish  ballads  naturally  divide 
themselves  into  three  classes: — the  Historic,  the 
Romantic,  and  the  Moorish.  It  must  be  confessed, 
however,  that  the  line  of  demarkation  between 
these  three  classes  is  not  well  denned ;  for  many 
of  the  Moorish  ballads  are  historic,  and  many  others 
occupy  a  kind  of  debatable  ground  between  the 
historic  and  the  romantic.  I  have  adopted  this 
classification  for  the  sake  of  its  convenience,  and 
shall  now  make  a  few  hasty  observations  upon  each 
class,  and  illustrate  my  remarks  by  specimens  of 
the  ballads. 

The  historic  ballads  are  those  which  recount  the 
noble  deeds  of  the  early  heroes  of  Spain :  of  Ber 
nardo  del  Carpio,  the  Cid,  Martin  Pelaez,  Garcia 
Perez  de  Vargas,  Alonso  de  Agnilar,  and  many 
others  whose  names  stand  conspicuous  in  Spanish 
history.  Indeed,  these  ballads  may  themselves  be 
regarded  in  the  light  of  historic  documents ;  they 
are  portraits  of  long  departed  ages,  and  if  at  times 
their  features  are  exaggerated  and  colored  with 
too  bold  a  contrast  of  light  and  shade,  yet  the  free 
and  spirited  touches  of  a  master's  hand  are  recog 
nized  in  all.  They  are  instinct,  too,  with  the  spirit 

VOL.  i.  12 


178  ANCIENT   SPANISH    BALLADS. 

of  Castillan  pride,  with  the  high  and  dauntless 
spirit  ofliberty  that  burned  so  fiercely  of  old  in  the 
heart  of  the  brave  hidalgo.  Take,  for  example, 
the  ballad  of  the  Five  Farthings.  King  Alfonso 
the  Eighth,  having  exhausted  his  treasury  in  war, 
wishes  to  lay  a  tax  of  five  farthings  upon  each  of 
the  Castilian  hidalgos,  in  order  to  defray  the  ex 
penses  of  a  journey  from  Burgos  to  Cuenca.  This 
proposition  of  the  king  was  met  with  disdain  by 
the  noblemen  who  had  been  assembled  on  tho 
occasion  : — 

Don  Nuiio,  Count  of  Lara, 

In  anger  and  in  pride, 
Forgot  all  reverence  for  the  king, 

And  thus  in  wrath  replied: — 

"  Our  noble  ancestors,"  quoth  he, 

" Ne'er  such  n  tribute  paid; 
Nor  shall  the  king  receive  of  us 

What  they  have  once  gainsaid. 

"  The  base-born  soul  who  deems  it  just 

May  here  with  thee  remain; 
But  follow  me,  ye  cavaliers, 

Ye  noblemen  of  Spain." 

Forth  followed  they  the  noble  count, 

They  marched  to  Glera's  plain; 
Out  of  three  thousand  gallant  knights, 
,        Did  only  three  remain. 

They  tied  the  tribute  to  their  spears, 

They  raised  it  in  the  air, 
And  they  sent  to  tell  their  lord  the  king 

That  his  tax  was  ready  there. 


ANCIENT   SPANISH   BALLADS.  179 

"  He  may  send  and  take  by  force,"  said  they, 

"  This  paltry  sum  of  gold ; 
But  the  goodly  gift  of  liberty 

Cannot  be  bought  and  sold.-" 

Tho  same  gallant  spirit  breathes  through  all  the 
historic  ballads;  but,  perhaps,  most  fervently  in 
those  which  relate  to  Bernardo  del  Carpio.  How 
spirit-stirring  are  all  the  speeches  which  the  ballad- 
writers  have  put  into  the  mouth  of  this  valiant 
hero !  "  Ours  is  the  blood  of  the  Goth,"  says  he 
to  King  Alfonso ;  "  sweet  to  us  is  liberty,  and  bond 
age  odious  ! " — "  The  king  may  give  his  castles  to 
the  Frank,  but  not  his  vassals ;  for  kings  themselves 
hold  no  dominion  over  the  free  will!"  He  and 
his  followers  would  rather  die  freemen  than  live 
slaves !  If  these  are  the  common  watchwords  of 
liberty  at  the  present  day,  they  were  no  less  so 
among  the  high-born  and  high-souled  Spaniards  of 
the  eighth  century. 

One  of  the  finest  of  the  historic  ballads  is  that 
which  describes  Bernardo's  march  to  Roncesvalles. 
He  sallies  forth  "  with  three  thousand  Leonese  and 
more,"  to  protect  the  glory  and  freedom  of  his 
native  land.  From  all  sides  the  peasantry  of  the 
land  flock  to  the  hero's  standard  : — 


The  peasant  leaves  his  plough  afield, 
The  reaper  leaves  his  hook, 

And  from  his  hand  the  shepherd-boy 
Lets  fall  the  pastoral  crook. 


180  -ANCIENT    SPANISH   BALLADS. 

The  young  set  tip  a  shout  of  joy, 

The  old.  forget  their  years, 
The  feeble  man  grows  stout  of  heart, 

No  more  the  craven  fears. 

All  rush  to  Bernard's  standard, 

And  on  liberty  they  call; 
They  cannot  brook  to  wear  the  yoke, 

When  threatened  by  the  Gaul. 

"  Free  were  we  born,"  'tis  thus  they  cry, 

"  And  willingly  pay  we 
The  duty  that  we  owe  our  king, 

By  the  divine  decree. 

u  But  God  forbid  that  we  obey 
The  laws  of  foreign  knaves, 

Tarnish  the  glory  of  our  sires, 
And  make  our  children  slaves. 

**  Our  hearts  have  not  so  craven  grown, 

So  bloodless  all  our  veins, 
So  vigorless  our  brawny  arms, 

As  to  submit  to  chains. 

"  Has  the  audacious  Frank,  forsooth, 
Subdued  these  seas  and  lands  ? 

Shah1  he  a  bloodless  victory  have  ? 
No;  not  while  we  have  hands. 

u  He  shall  learn  that  the  gallant  Leonese 
Can  bravely  fight  and  fall ; 

But  that  they  know  not  ho'.v  to  yield ; 
They  are  Castilians  all. 


ANCIENT   SPANISH   BALLADS.  181 

"  Was  it  for  this  the  Roman  power 

Of  old  was  made  to  yield 
Unto  Numantia's  valiant  hosts, 

On  many  a  bloody  field? 

•'  Shall  the  bold  lions,  that  have  bathed 

Their  paws  in  Libyan  gore, 
Crouch  basely  to  a  feebler  foe, 

And  dare  the  strife  no  more  ? 

"  Let  the  false  king  sell  town  and  tower, 

But  not  his  vassals  free ; 
For  to  subdue  the  free-born  soul 

No  royal  power  hath  he !  " 

These  short  specimens  will  suffice  to  show  tho 
spirit  of  the  old  heroic  ballads  of  Spain  ;  the  Ro 
mances  del  Cid,  and  those  that  rehearse  the  gallant 
achievements  of  many  other  champions,  brave  and 
stalwart  knights  of  old,  I  must  leave  unnoticed, 
and  pass  to  another  field  of  chivalry  and  song. 

The  next  class  of  the  ancient  Spanish  ballads  is 
the  Romantic,  including  those  which  relate  to  the 
Twelve  Peers  of  Charlemagne  and  other  imaginary 
heroes  of  the  days  of  chivalry.  There  is  an  exag 
geration  in  the  prowess  of  these  heroes  of  romance 
which  is  in  accordance  with  the  warmth  of  a  Span 
ish  imagination ;  and  the  ballads  which  celebrate 
their  achievements  still  go  from  mouth  to  mouth 
among  the  peasantry  of  Spain,  and  are  hawked 
about  the  streets  by  the  blind  ballad-monger. 

Among  the  romantic  ballads,  those  of  the  Twelve 
Peers  stand  preeminent ;  not  so  much  for  their 


182  ANCIENT   SPANISH    BALLADS. 

poetic  merit  as  for  the  fame  of  their  heroes.  In 
them  are  sung  the  valiant  knights  whose  history  b 
written  more  at  large  in  the  prose  romances  of 
chivalry, — Orlando,  and  Oliver,  and  Montesinos, 
and  Durandarte,  and  the  Marques  de  Mantua,  and 
the  other  paladins,  "  que  en  ttna  mesa  comian  pan." 
These  ballads  are  of  different  length  and  various 
degrees  of  merit.  Of  some  a  few  lines  only  re 
main  ;  they  are  evidently  fragments  of  larger  works ; 
while  others,  on  the  contrary,  aspire  to  the  length 
and  dignity  of  epic  poems ;— witness  the  ballads  of 
the  Conde  de  Irlos  and  the  Marques  de  Mantua, 
each  of  which  consists  of  nearly  a  thousand  long 
and  sonorous  hexameters. 

Among  these  ballads  of  the  Twelve  Peers  ther> 
are  many  of  great  beauty ;  others  possess  little 
•merit,  and  are  wanting  in  vigor  and  conciseness. 
From  the  structure  of  the  versification,  I  should 
rank  them  among  the  oldest  of  the  Spanish  ballads. 
They  are  all  mon rhythmic,  with  full  consonant 
rhymes. 

To  the  romantic  ballads  belong  also  a  great 
number  which  recount  the  deeds  of  less  celebrated 
heroes ;  but  among  them  all  none  is  so  curious  as 
that  of  Virgil.  Like  the  old  French  romance- 
writers  of  the  Middle  Ages,  the  early  Spanish  poets 
introduce  the  Mantuan  bard  as  a  knight  of  chivalry. 
The  ballad  informs  us  that  a  certain  king  kept  him 
imprisoned  seven  years,  for  what  old  Brantome 
would  call  outrecuydance  with  a  certain  Dona 
Isabel.  But  being  at  mass  on  Sunday,  the  recol- 


ANCIEN1    SPANISH   BALLADS.  183 

lection  of  Virgil  comes  suddenly  into  his  mind, 
when  he  ought  to  be  attending  to  the  priest ;  and, 
turning  to  his  knights,  he  asks  them  what  has  be 
come  of  Virgil.  One  of  them  replies,  "Your 
Highness  has  him  imprisoned  in  your  dungeons  " ; 
to  which  the  king  makes  answer  with  the  greatest 
coolness,  by  telling  them  that  the  dinner  is  waiting, 
and  that  after  they  have  dined  they  will  pay  Virgil 
a  visit  in  his  prison.  Then  up  and  spake  the  queen 
like  a  true  heroine ;  quoth  she,  "  I  will  not  dine 
without  him " ;  and  straightway  they  all  repaired 
to  the  prison,  where  they  find  the  incarcerated 
knight  engaged  in  the  pleasant  pastime  of  combing 
his  hair  and  arranging  his  beard.  He  tells  the 
king  very  coolly  that  on  that  very  day  he  has  been 
a  prisoner  seven  years ;  to  this  the  king  replies, 
"  Hush,  hush,  Virgil ;  it  takes  three  more  to  make 
ten."  "  Sire,"  says  Virgil,  with  the  same  philosoph 
ical  composure,  "  if  your  Highness  so  ordains,  I  will 
pass  my  whole  life  here."  "  As  a  reward  for  your 
patience,  you  shall  dine  with  me  to-day,"  says  the 
king.  "  My  coat  is  torn,"  says  Virgil ;  "  I  am  not 
in  trim  to  make  a  leg."  But  this  difficulty  is  re 
moved  by  the  promise  of  a  new  suit  from  the  king ; 
and  they  go  to  dinner.  Virgil  delights  both  knights 
and  damsels,  but  most  of  all  Dona  Isabel.  The 
archbishop  is  called  in ;  they  are  married  forthwith, 
and  the  ballad  closes  like  a  scene  in  some  old 
play : — "  He  takes  her  by  the  hand,  and  leads  her 
to  the  garden." 

Such  is  this  curious  ballad 


184  ANCIENT   SPANISH   BALLADS. 

I  now  turn  to  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  these 
ancient  Spanish  poems ; — it  is  the  Romance  del 
Conde  Alarcos ;  a  ballad  full  of  interest  and  of 
touching  pathos.  The  story  is  briefly  this.  The 
Count  Alarcos,  after  being  secretly  betrothed  to 
the  Infanta  Solisa,  forsakes  her  and  weds  another 
lady.  Many  years  afterward,  the  princess,  sitting 
alone,  as  she  was  wont,  and  bemoaning  her  forsaken 
lot,  resolves  to  tell  the  cause  of  her  secret  sorrow 
to  the  king  her  father;  and,  after  confessing  her 
clandestine  love  for  Count  Alarcos,  demands  the 
death  of  the  countess,  to  heal  her  wounded  honor. 
Her  story  awakens  the  wrath  of  the  king;  he  ac 
knowledges  the  justness  of  her  demand,  seeks  an 
interview  with  the  count,  and  sets  the  case  before 
him  in  so  strong  a  light,  that  finally  he  wrings  from 
him  a  promise  to  put  his  wife  to  death  with  his  own 
hand.  The  count  returns  homeward  a  grief-stricken 
man,  weeping  the  sad  destiny  of  his  wife,  and  say 
ing  within  himself,  "  How  shall  I  look  upon  her 
smile  of  joy,  when  she  comes  forth  to  meet  me  V  " 
The  countess  welcomes  his  return  with  affectionate 
tenderness ;  but  he  is  heavy  at  heart,  and  discon 
solate.  He  sits  down  to  supper  with  his  children 
around  htm,  but  the  food  is  untasted ;  he  hides  his 
face  in  his  hands,  and  weeps.  At  length  they  re 
tire  to  their  chamber.  In  the  language  of  Mr. 
Lockhart's  translation, — 

"  They  camo  together  to  the  bower,  where  they  were  used 

to  rest, — 
None  with  them  but  the  little  babe  that  was  upon  th« 

breast: 


ANCIENT   SPANISH   BALLADS.  185 

The  count  had  barred  the  chamber-doors, — they   ne'er 

were  barred  till  then : 
Unhappy  lady,'  he  began, '  and  I  most  lost  of  men ! ' 

u '  Now  speak  not  so,  my  noble  lord,  my  husband,  and  my 

life! 

Unhappy  never  can  she  be  that  is  Alarcos'  wife ! ' 
'Alas!  unhappy  lady,  'tis  but  little  that  you  know; 
For  in  that  very  word  you've  said  is  gathered  all  your 

woe. 

" '  Long  since  I  loved  a  lady, — long  since  I   oaths  did 

plight 

To  be  that  lady's  husband,  to  love  her  day  and  night; 
Her  father   is   our  lord  the  king, — to  him  the  thing  is 

known; 
And  now — that  I  the  news  should  bring ! — she  claims  me 

for  her  own. 

"  '  Alas !  my  love,  alas !  my  life,  the  right  is  on  their  side ; 
Ere  1  had  seen  your  face,  sweet  wife,  she  was  betrothed 

my  bride ; 
But — 0,  that  I  should  speak  the  word! — since    in  her 

place  you  lie, 
It  is  the  bidding  of  our  lord  that  you  this  night  must  die.' 

"  '  Are  these  the  wages  of  my  love,  so  lowly  and  so  leal  ? 
0,  kill  me  not,  thou  noble  Count,  when  at  thy  tbot  I 
kneel! 

But  send  me  to  my  father's  house,  where  once  I  dwelt  in 
glee; 

There  will  I  live  a  lone,  chaste  life,  and  rear  my  children 
three.' 

u '  It  may  not  be, — mine  oath  is  strong, — ere  dawn  of  day 

you  die.' 
0,  well  'tis  seen  how  all  alone  upon  the  earth  am  I ! — 


186  ANCIENT   SPANISH    BALLADS. 

My  father  is  an  old,  frail  man;  my  mother's  in  her  grave 
And  dead  is  stout  Don  Garci,— alas!  my  brother  brave! 

" « 'Twas  at  this  coward  king's  command  they  slew  my 

brother  dear, 

And  now  I'm  helpless  in  the  land!— it  is  not  death  I  fear, 
But  loth,  loth  am  I  to  depart,  and  leave  my  children  so;— 
Now  let  me  lay  them  to  my  heart,  and  kiss  them,  ere  I 

go-' 

"  *  Kiss  him  that  lies  upon  thy  breast,— the  rest  thou  mayst 

not  see.' 

*  I  fain  would  say  an  Ave.'    *  Then  say  it  speedily.' 
She  knelt  her  down  upon  her  knee,—'  0  Lord,  behold  my 

case ! 
Judge  not  my  deeds,  but  look  on  me  in  pity  and  great 

grace ! ' 

4  When  she  had  made  her  orison,  up  from  her  knees  she 

rose : — 

'  Be  kind,  Alarcos,  to  our  babes,  and  pray  for  my  repose, 
And  now  give  me  my  boy  once  more,  upon  my  breast  to 

hold, 
That  he  may  drink  one  farewell  drink  before  my  breast 

be  cold.' 

"  '  Why  would  you  waken  the  poor  child?  you  see  he  is 

asleep ; 
Prepare,  dear  wife,  there  is  no  time,  the  dawn  begins  to 

peep.' 

Now,  hear  me,  Count  Alarcos!  I  give  thee  pardon  free: 
I  pardon  thee  for  the  love's  sake  wherewith  I've  loved 

thee  :— 

' '  But  they  have  not  my  pardon,— the  king  and  his  proud 
daughter; 


ANCIENT   SPANISH   BALLADS.  187 

The   curse   of   God   be  on  them,  for  this  unchristian 

slaughter , 
I  charge  them  with  my  dying  breath,  ere  thirty  days  be 

gone, 
To  meet  me  hi  the  realm  of  death,  and  at  God's  awful 

throne!'" 

The  count  then  strangles  her  with  a  scarf,  and 
the  ballad  concludes  with  the  fulfilment  of  the  dy 
ing  lady's  prayer,  in  the  death  of  the  king  and  the 
Infanta  within  twenty  days  of  her  own. 

Few,  I  think,  will  be  disposed  to  question  the 
beauty  of  this  ancient  ballad,  though  the  refined 
and  cultivated  taste  of  many  may  revolt  from  the 
seemingly  unnatural  incident  upon  which  it  is 
founded.  It  must  be  recollected  that  this  is  a  scene  ' 
taken  from  a  barbarous  age,  when  the  life  of  even 
the  most  cherished  and  beloved  was  held  of  little 
value  in  comparison  with  a  chivalrous  but  false  and 
exaggerated  point  of  honor.  It  must  be  borne  in 
mind  also,  that,  notwithstanding  the  boasted  liberty 
of  the  Castilian  hidalgos,  and  their  frequent  rebel 
lions  against  the  crown,  a  deep  reverence  for  the 
divine  right  of  kings,  and  a  consequent  disposition 
to  obey  the  mandates  of  the  throne,  at  almost  any 
sacrifice,  has  always  been  one  of  the  prominent 
traits  of  the  Spanish  character.  When  taken  in 
connection  with  these  circumstances,  the  story  of 
this  old  ballad  ceases  to  be  so  grossly  improbable  as 
it  seems  at  first  sight :  and,  indeed,  becomes  an  il 
lustration  of  national  character.  In  all  probability, 


188  ANCIENT   SPANISH   BALLADS. 

the  story  of  the  Conde  Alarcos  had  some  founda 
tion  in  fact.* 

The  third  class  of  the  ancient  Spanish  ballads  is 
the  Moorish.  Here  we  enter  a  new  world,  more 
gorgeous  and  more  dazzling  than  that  of  Gothic 
chronicle  and  tradition.  The  stern  spirits  of  Ber 
nardo,  the  Cid,  and  Mudarra  have  passed  away; 
the  mail-clad  forms  of  Guarinos,  Orlando,  and 
Durandarte  arc  not  here  ;  the  scene  is  changed ;  it 
is  the  bridal  of  Andalla ;  the  bull-fight  of  Ganzul. 
The  sunshine  of  Andalusia  glances  upon  the  marble 
halls  of  Granada,  and  green  are  the  banks  of  the 
Xenil  and  the  Darro.  A  band  of  Moorish  knights 
gayly  arrayed  in  gambesons  of  crimson  silk,  with 
scarfs  of  blue  and  jewelled  tahalies,  sweep  like  the 
wind  through  the  square  of  Vivarambla.  They 
ride  to  the  Tournament  of  Reeds ;  the  Moorish 
maiden  leans  from  the  balcony  ;  bright  eyes  glisten 
from  many  a  lattice ;  and  the  victorious  knight  re 
ceives  the  prize  of  valor  from  the  hand  of  her 
whose  beauty  is  like  the  star-lit  night.  These  are 
the  Xarifas,  the  Celindas,  and  Lindaraxas, — the 
Andallas,  Ganzules,  and  Abenzaydes  of  Moorish 
song. 

Then  comes  the  sound  of  the  silver  clarion,  and 
the  roll  of  the  Moorish  atabal,  down  from  the  snowy 
pass  of  the  Sierra  Nevada  and  across  the  gardens 

*  This  exaggerated  reverence  for  the  person  and  prerogatives  of 
the  king  has  furnished  the  groundwork  of  two  of  the  best  dramas 
In  the  Spanish  language;  La  Estrella  de  Seville,  by  Lope  do 
Vega,  and  Del  Key  abajo  Ninguno,  by  Francisco  de  Rojas. 


ANCIENT   SPANISH   BALLADS.  189 

of  the  Vega.  Alhama  has  fallen  !  woe  is  me,  Al- 
hama  !  The  Christian  is  at  the  gates  of  Granada  ; 
the  banner  of  the  cross  floats  from  the  towers  of  the 
Alhambra !  And  these,  too,  are  themes  for  the 
minstrel, — themes  sung  alike  by  Moor  and  Span 
laid. 

Among  the  Moorish  ballads  are  included  not 
only  those  which  were  originally  composed  in 
Arabic,  but  all  that  relate  to  the  manners,  customs, 
and  history  of  the  Moors  in  Spain.  In  most  of 
them  the  influence  of  an  Oriental  taste  is  clearly 
visible  ;  their  spirit  is  more  refined  and  effeminate 
than  that  of  the  historic  and  romantic  ballads,  in 
which  no  trace  of  such  an  influence  is  perceptible. 
The  spirit  of  the  Cid  is  stern,  unbending,  steel-clad ; 
his  hand  grasps  his  sword  Tizona ;  his  heel  wounds 
the  flank  of  his  steed  Babieca. 

"  La  mano  aprieta  a  Tizona, 
Y  el  talon  fiere  a  Babieca." 

But  the  spirit  of  Arbolan  the  Moor,  though  resolute 
in  camps,  is  effeminate  in  courts ;  he  is  a  diamond 
among  scimitars,  yet  graceful  in  the  dance  ; — 

"  Diamante  entre  los  alfanges, 
Gracioso  en  baylar  las  zambras." 

The  ancient  ballads  are  stamped  with  the  charac 
ter  of  their  heroes.  Abundant  illustrations  of  this 
could  be  given,  but  it  is  not  necessary. 

Among  the  most  spirited  of  the  Moorish  ballads 


130  AXCIENT   SPANISH   BALLADS. 

are  those  which  are  interwoven  in  the  History  of 
the  Civil  Wars  of  Granada.  The  following,  entitled 
"  A  very  mournful  Ballad  on  the  Siege  and  Con 
quest  of  Alhama,"  is  very  beautiful ;  and  such  was 
the  effect  it  produced  upon  the  Moors,  that  it  was 
forbidden,  on  pain  of  death,  to  sing  it  within  the 
walls  of  Granada.  The  translation,  which  is  exe 
cuted  with  great  skill  and  fidelity,  is  from  the  pen 
of  Lord  Byron. 


"  The  Moorish  king  rides  up  and  down, 
Through  Granada's  royal  town; 
From  Elvira's  gates  to  those 
Of  Bivarambla  on  he  goes. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

M  Letters  to  the  monarch  tell 
How  Alhama's  city  fell ; 
In  the  fire  the  scroll  he  threw, 
And  the  messenger  he  slew. 
Woe  is  me,  Alharaa! 

"  He  quits  his  mule,  and  mounts  his  hors«, 
And  through  the  street  directs  his  course; 
Through  the  street  of  Zacatin 
To  the  Alhambra  spurring  in. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

"  When  the  Alhambra's  walls  he  gained, 
On  the  moment  he  ordained 
That  the  trumpet  straight  should  sound 
With  the  silver  clarion  round. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 


ANCIENT    SPANISH    BALLADS.  191 

"  And  -when  the  hollow  drums  of  war 
Beat  the  loud  alarm  afar, 
That  the  Moors  of  town  and  plain 
Might  answer  to  the  martial  strain, — 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

"  Then  the  Moors,  by  this  aware 
That  bloody  Mars  recalled  them  there, 
One  by  one,  and  two  by  two, 
To  a  mighty  squadron  grew. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

"  Out  then  spake  an  aged  Moor, 
In  these  words  the  king  before : — 
'  Wherefore  call  on  us,  0  king? 
What  may  mean  this  gathering? ' 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

"  *  Friends !  ye  have,  alas !  to  know 
Of  a  most  disastrous  blow; 
That  the  Christians,  stem  and  bold, 
Have  obtained  Alhama's  hold.' 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

"  Out  then  spake  old  Alfaqui, 
With  his  beard  so  white  to  see : — 
'  Good  king,  thou  art  justly  served; 
Good  king,  this  thou  hast  deserved. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

"  *  By  thee  were  slain,  in  evil  hour, 
The  Abencerrage,  Granada's  flower; 
And  strangers  were  received  by  thee 
Of  Cordova  the  chivalry. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 


192  ANCIENT    SPANISH   BALLADS. 

"'  And  for  this,  0  king!  is  sent 
On  thee  a  double  chastisement; 
Thee  and  thine,  thy  crown  and  realm. 
One  last  wreck  shall  overwhelm. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

" '  He  who  holds  no  laws  in  awe, 
He  must  perish  by  the  law; 
And  Granada  must  be  won, 
And  thyself  with  her  undone.' 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama! 

"Fire  flashed  from  out  the  old  Moor's  eye*; 
The  monarch's  wrath  began  to  rise, 
Because  he  answered,  and  because 
He  spake  exceeding  well  of  laws. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama ! 

"  '  There  is  no  law  to  say  such  things 
As  may  disgust  the  car  of  kings ! ' 
Thus,  snorting  with  his  choler,  said 
The  Moorish  king,  and  doomed  him  dead. 
Woe  is  me,  Alharaa!  " 

Such  are  the  ancient  ballads  of  Spain ;  poems 
which,  like  the  Gothic  cathedrals  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  have  outlived  the  names  of  their  builders. 
They  are  the  handiwork  of  wandering,  homeless 
minstrels,  who  for  their  daily  bread  thus  "built 
the  lofty  rhyme " ;  and  whose  names,  like  their 
dust  and  ashes,  have  long,  long  been  wrapped  in 
a  shroud.  "  These  poets,"  says  an  anonymous 
writer,  "  have  left  behind  them  no  trace  to  which 


AXCIEXT    SPANISH    BALLADS.  193 

the  imagination  can  attach  itself;  they  have  'died 
and  made  no  sign/  We  pass  from  the  infancy  of 
Spanish  poetry  to  the  age  of  Charles,  through  a 
long  vista  of  monuments  without  inscriptions,  as 
the  traveller  approaches  the  noise  and  bustle  of 
modern  Rome  through  the  lines  of  silent  and 
unknown  tombs  that  border  the  Appian  Way." 

Before  closing  this  essay,  I  must  allude  to  the 
unfavorable  opinion  which  the  learned  Dr.  Southey 
has  expressed  concerning  the  merit  of  these  old 
Spanish  ballads.  In  his  preface  to  the  Chronicle 
of  the  Cid,  he  says,—"  The  heroic  ballads  of  the 
Spaniards  have  been  overrated  in  this  country; 
they  are  infinitely  and  every  way  inferior  to  our 
own  ;  there  are  some  spirited  ones  in  the  Guerras 
Civiles  de  Granada,  from  which  the  rest  have  been 
estimated ;  but,  excepting  these,  I  know  none  of 
any  value  among  the  many  hundreds  which  I  have 
perused."  On  this  field  I  am  willing  to  do  battle, 
though  it  be  with  a  veteran  knight  who  bears 
enchanted  arms,  and  whose  sword,  like  that  of 
Martin  Antolinez,  "  illumines  all  the  field."  That 
the  old  Spanish  ballads  may  have  been  overrated, 
and  that  as  a  whole  they  are  inferior  to  the 
English,  I  concede ;  that  many  of  the  hundred 
ballads  of  the  Cid  are  wanting  in  interest,  and  that  • 
many  of  those  of  the  Twelve  Peers  of  France  are 
languid,  and  drawn  out  beyond  the  patience  of  the 
most  patient  reader,  I  concede;  I  willingly  confess,' 
also,  that  among  them  all  I  have  found  none  that 
can  rival  in  graphic  power  the  short  but  wonderful 

VOL.  i.  13 


191  ANCIENT   SPANISH   BALLADS. 

ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spcnce,  wherein  the  mariner 
sees  "  the  new  moon  with  the  old  moon  in  her 
arm,"  or  the  more  modern  one  of  the  Battle  of 
Agin  court,  by  Michael  Drayton,  beginning, — 

"Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France, 
As  we  our  sails  advance, 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 
Longer  will  tarry; 

But  putting  to  the  main, 
At  Caux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train, 
Landed  King  Harry." 

All  this  I  readily  concede ;  but  that  the  old  Spanish 
ballads  are  infinitely  and  every  way  inferior  to  the 
English,  and  that  among  them  all  there  are  none 
of  any  value,  save  a  few  which  celebrate  the  civil 
wars  of  Granada, — this  I  deny.  The  March  of 
Bernardo  del  Carpio  is  hardly  inferior  to  Chevy 
Chase ;  and  the  ballad  of  the  Conde  Alarcos,  in 
simplicity  and  pathos,  has  no  peer  in  all  English 
balladry, — it  is  superior  to  Edem  o'Gordon. 

But  a  truce  to  criticism.  Already,  methinks,  I 
hear  the  voice  of  a  drowsy  and  prosaic  herald 
proclaiming,  in  the  language  of  Don  Quixote  to 
the  puppet-player,  "Make  an  end,  Master  Peter : 
for  it  grows  toward  supper-time,  and  I  have  some 
symptoms  of  hunger  upon  me." 


THE 


VILLAGE    OF    EL    PARDILLO. 


TVnen  the  lawyer  Is  swallowed  up  with  business,  and  the 
Etatesman  is  preventing  or  contriving  plots,  then  we  sit  on 
cowslip  banks,  hear  the  birds  sing,  and  possess  ourselves  in  as 
much  quietness  as  these  silent  silver  streams  we  now  see  gli  le 
so  quietly  by  us.  IZAAK  WALTON. 


IN  that  delicious  season  when  the  coy  and  capri 
cious  maidenhood  of  spring  is  swelling  into  the 
warmer,  riper,  and  more  voluptuous  womanhood 
of  summer,  I  left  Madrid  for  the  village  of  El 
Pardillo.  I  had  already  seen  enough  of  the  vil 
lages  of  the  North  of  Spain  to  know  that  for  the 
most  part  they  have  few  charms  to  entice  one 
from  the  city ;  but  I  was  curious  to  see  the  peas 
antry  of  the  land  in  their  native  homes, — to  see 
how  far  the  shepherds  of  Castile  resemble  those 
who  sigh  and  sing  in  the  pastoral  romances  of 
Montemayor  and  Gaspar  Gil  Polo. 

I  love  the  city  and  its  busy  hum ;  I  love  that 
glad  excitement  of  the  crowd  which  makes  the 
pulse  beat  quick,  the  freedom  from  restraint,  the 
absence  of  those  curious  eyes  and  idle  tongues 
which  persecute  one  in  villages  and  provincial 
towns.  I  love  the  country,  too,  in  its  season  ;  and 


196  THE   VILLAGE   OF   EL   PARDILLO. 

there  is  no  scene  over  which  my  eye  roves  with 
more  delight  than  the  face  of  a  summer  landscape 
dimpled  with  soft  sunny  hollows,  and  smiling  in  all 
the  freshness  and  luxuriarce  of  June.  There  is 
no  book  in  which  I  read  sweeter  lessons  of  virtue, 
or  find  the  beauty  of  a  quiet  life  more  legibly 
recorded.  My  heart  drinks  in  the  tranquillity  of 
the  scene ;  and  I  never  hear  the  sweet  warble  of  a 
bird  from  its  native  wood,  without  a  silent  wish 
that  such  a  cheerful  voice  and  peaceful  shade  were 
mine.  There  is  a  beautiful  moral  feeling  connected 
with  every  thing  in  rural  life,  which  is  not  dreamed 
of  in  the  philosophy  of  the  city ;  the  voice  of  the 
brook  and  the  language  of  the  winds  and  woods 
are  no  poetic  fiction.  What  an  impressive  lesson 
is  there  in  the  opening  bud  of  spring !  what  an 
eloquent  homily  in  the  fall  of  the  autumnal  leaf! 
How  well  does  the  song  of  a  passing  bird  represent 
the  glad  but  transitory  days  of  youth !  and  in  the 
hollow  tree  and  hooting  owl  what  a  melancholy 
image  of  the  decay  and  imbecility  of  old  age !  In 
the  beautiful  language  of  an  English  poet, — 

"  Your  voiceless  lips,  0  flowers,  are  living  preachers, 
Each  cup  a  pulpit,  every  leaf  a  book, 
Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers, 
From  loneliest  nook. 

"  'Neath  cloistered  boughs  each  floral  bell  that  swingeth, 
And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing  air, 
Makes  Sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever  ringeth 
A  call  to  prayer; 


THE   VILLAGE   OF   EL  PARDILLO.  19'« 

"  Not  to  the  domes  where  crumbling  arch  and  column 
Attest  the  feebleness  of  mortal  hand, 
But  to  that  fane  most  catholic  and  solemn 
Which  God  hath  planned; 

*  To  that  cathedral,  boundless  as  our  wonder, 
Whose  quenchless  lamps  the  sun  and  moon  supply, — 
Its  choir  the  winds  and  waves, — its  organ  thunder,— 

Its  dome  the  sky. 

*  There,  amid  solitude  and  shade,  I  wander 
Through  the  green  aisles,  and,  stretched  upon  the  sod, 
Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  ponder 

The  ways  of  God." 

But  the  traveller  who  journeys  through  the 
northern  provinces  of  Spain  will  look  in  vain  for 
the  charms  of  rural  scenery  in  the  villages  he 
passes.  Instead  of  trim  cottages,  and  gardens,  and 
the  grateful  shade  of  trees,  he  will  sec  a  cluster  of 
stone  hovels  roofed  with  red  tiles  and  basking  in 
the  hot  sun,  without  a  single  tree  to  lend  him  shade 
or  shelter;  and  instead  of  green  meadows  and 
woodlands  vocal  with  the  song  of  birds,  he  will 
find  bleak  and  rugged  mountains,  and  vast  ex 
tended  plains,  that  stretch  away  beyond  his  ken. 

It  was  my  good  fortune,  however,  to  find,  not 
many  leagues  from  the  metropolis,  a  village  which 
could  boast  the  shadow  of  a  few  trees.  El  Par- 
dillo  is  situated  on  the  southern  slor  }  of  the 
Guadarrama  Mountains,  just  where  the  last  broken 
spurs  of  the  sierra  stretch  forward  into  the  vast 
table-land  of  New  Castile.  The  village  itself,  like 


198  THE    VILLAGE   OF    EL   PARDILLO. 

most  other  Castilian  villages,  is  only  a  cluster  of 
weather-stained  and  dilapidated  houses,  huddled 
together  without  beauty  or  regularity ;  but  the* 
scenery  around  it  is  picturesque, — a  mingling  of 
hill  and  dale,  sprinkled  with  patches  of  cultivated 
land  and  clumps  of  forest-trees ;  and  in  the  back 
ground  the  blue,  vapory  outline  of  the  Guadarrauia 
Mountains  melting  into  the  sky. 

In  this  quiet  place  I  sojourned  for  a  season, 
accompanied  by  the  publican  Don  Valentin  and 
his  fair  daughter  Florencia.  We  took  up  our 
abode  in  the  cottage  of  a  peasant  named  Lucas, 
an  honest  tiller  of  the  soil,  simple  and  good- 
natured  ;  or,  in  the  more  emphatic  language  of 
Don  Valentin,  "  un  hombre  muy  infeliz,  y  sin 
malicia  ninyuna."  Not  so  his  wife  Martina :  she 
was  a  Tartar ;  and  so  mettlesome  withal,  that  poor 
Lucas  skulked  doggedly  about  his  own  premises, 
with  his  head  down  and  his  tail  between  his  legs. 

In  this  little  village  my  occupations  were  few 
and  simple.  My  morning's  walk  was  to  the  Cross 
of  Espalmado,  a  large  wooden  crucifix  in  the 
fields;  the  day  was  passed  with  books,  or  with 
any  idle  companion  I  was  lucky  enough  to  catch 
by  the  button,  and  bribe  with  a  cigar  into  a  long 
story,  or  a  little  village  gossip  ;  and  I  whiled  away 
the  evening  in  peeping  round  among  the  cottagers, 
studying  the  beautiful  landscape  that  spread  before 
me,  and  watching  the  occasional  gathering  of  a 
storm  about  the  blue  peaks  of  the  Guadarrama 
Mountains.  My  favorite  haunt  was  a  secluded 


THE   VILLAGE   OF    EL   PARDILLO.  199 

spot  in  a  little  -woodland  valley,  through  -which  a 
crystal  brook  ran  brawling  along  its  pebbly  chan- 
,nel.  There,  stretched  in  the  shadow  of  a  tree,  I 
often  passed  the  hours  of  noontide  heat,  now 
reading  the  magic  numbers  of  Garcilaso,  and 
anon  listening  to  the  song  of  the  nightingale 
overhead  ;  or  watching  the  toil  of  a  patient  ant, 
as  he  rolled  his  stone,  like  Sisyphus,  up-hill,  or 
the  flight  of  a  bee  darting  from  flower  to  flower, 
and  "  hiding  his  murmurs  in  the  rose." 

Blame  me  not,  thou  studious  moralist, — blame 
me  not  unheard  for  this  idle  dreaming ;  such  mo 
ments  are  not  wholly  thrown  away.  In  the  lan 
guage  of  Goethe,  "  I  lie  down  in  the  grass  near 
a  falling  brook,  and  close  to  the  earth  a  thousand 
varieties  of  grasses  become  perceptible.  When 
I  listen  to  the  hum  of  the  little  world  between  the 
stubble,  and  see  the  countless  indescribable  forms 
of  insects,  I  feel  the  presence  of  the  Almighty 
who  has  created  us, — the  breath  of  the  All-benevo 
lent  who  supports  us  ii«  perpetual  enjoyment." 

The  village  church,  too,  was  a  spot  around 
which  I  occasionally  lingered  of  an  evening, 
when  in  pensive  or  melancholy  mood.  And  here, 
gentle  reader,  thy  imagination  will  straightway 
conjure  up  a  scene  of  ideal  beauty,  —a  village 
church  with  decent  wlute-washed  walls,  and 
modest  spire  just  peeping  forth  from  a  clump  of 
trees  !  No ;  I  will  not  deceive  thee ; — the  church 
of  El  Pardillo  resembles  not  this  picture  of  thj 
well-tutored  fancy.  It  is  a  gloomy  little  edifice 


200  THE    VILLAGE   OF    EL   PARDILLO. 

standing  upon  the  outskirts  of  the  village,  and 
built  of  dark  and  unhewn  stone,  with  a  spire  like 
a  sugar-loaf.  There  is  no  grass-plot  in  front,  but 
a  little  esplanade  beaten  hard  by  the  footsteps  of 
the  church-going  peasantry.  The  tombstone  of 
one  of  the  patriarchs  of  the  village  serves  as  a 
door-step,  and  a  single  solitary  tree  throws  its 
friendly  shade  upon  the  portals  of  the  little 
sanctuary. 

One  evening,  as  I  loitered  around  this  spot, 
the  sound  of  an  organ  and  the  chant  of  youthful 
voices  from  within  struck  my  ear;  the  church- 
door  was  ajar,  and  I  entered.  There  stood  the 
priest,  surrounded  by  a  group  of  children,  who 
were  sin  inns  a  hymn  to  the  Virgin  : — 


- 


"  Ave,  Regina  coelorum, 
Ave,  Domina  angelorum." 

There  is  something  exceedingly  thrilling  in  the 
voices  of  children  singing.  Though  their  music 
be  unskilful,  yet  it  finds  its  way  to  the  heart  with 
wonderful  celerity.  Voices  of  cherubs  arc  they, 
for  they  breathe  of  paradise  ;  clear,  liquid  tones, 
that  flow  from  pure  lips  and  innocent  hearts,  like 
the  sweetest  notes  of  a  flute,  or  the  falling  of 
water  from  a  fountain !  When  the  chant  waa 
finished,  the  priest  opened  a  little  book  which 
he  held  in  his  hand,  and  began,  with  a  voice  as 
solemn  as  a  funeral  bell,  to  question  this  class 
of  roguish  little  catechumens,  whom  he  was  in 
itiating  into  the  mysterious  doctrines  of  the  mother 


THE   VILLAGE   OF   EL   PARDILLO.  201 


church.  Some  of  the  questions  and  answers 
BO  curious,  that  I  cannot  refrain  from  repeating 
them  here  ;  and  should  any  one  doubt  their 
authenticity,  he  will  find  them  in  the  Spanish 
catechism. 

"  In  what  consists  the  mystery  of  the  Holy 
Trinity  ?  " 

"  In  one  God,  who  is  three  persons  ;  and  three 
persons,  who  are  but  one  God." 

"  But  tell  me,  —  three  human  persons,  are  they 
not  three  men  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father." 

•'  Then  why  are  not  three  divine  persons  three 
Gods  ?  " 

"  Because  three  human  persons  have  three 
human  natures  ;  but  the  three  divine  persons  have 
only  one  divine  nature." 

"  Can  you  explain  this  by  an  example  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father  ;  as  a  tree  which  has  three  branches 
is  still  but  one  tree,  since  all  the  three  branches 
spring  from  one  trunk,  so  the  three  divine  persons 
are  but  one  God,  because  they  all  have  the  same 
divine  nature." 

"  Where  were  these  three  divine  persons  before 
the  heavens  and  the  earth  were  created  ?  " 

*'  In  themselves." 

"  "Which  of  them  was  made  man  ?  " 

"  The  Son." 

"  And  after  the  Son  was  made  man,  was  he  still 
God?" 

"  Yes,  father  ;  for  in  becoming  man  he  did  not 


202  THE    VILLAGE   OF    EL    PARDILLO. 

cease  to  be  God,  any  more  than  a  man  when  be 
becomes  a  monk  ceases  to  be  a  man." 
"  How  was  the  Son  of  God  made  flesh  ?  " 
"  He  was  born  of  the  most  holy  Virgin  Mary." 
"  And  can  we  still  call  her  a  virgin  ?  " 
"  Yes,  father ;   for  as  a  ray  of  the  sun  may 
pass  through  a  pane  of  glass,  and  the  glass  re 
main   unbroken,   so  the  Virgin  Mary,  after  the 
birth  of  her  son,  was  a  pure  and  holy  virgin  as 
before."  * 

"  Who  died  to  save  and  redeem  us  ?  " 
"  The  Son  of  God :  as  man,  and  not  as  God." 
"  How  could  he   suffer  and  die  as  man  only, 
being    both    God  and    man,   and    yet    but    one 
person  ?  " 

"  As  in  a  heated  bar  of  iron  upon  which  water 
is  thrown,  the  heat  only  is  affected,  and  not  the 
iron,  so  the  Son  of  God  suffered  in  his  human 
nature  and  not  in  his  divine." 

"  And  when  the  spirit  was  separated  from  his 
most  precious  body,  whither  did  the  spirit  go  ?  " 

*This  Illustration  was  also  made  use  of  during  the  dark  ages. 
Pierre  de  Corbiac,  a  Troubadour  of  the  thirteenth  century,  thui 
Introduces  it  in  a  poem  entitled  Prayer  to  the  Virgin : — 

u  Domna,  verges  pur'  e  flna 
Ansque  fos  P  enfantamens, 
Et  apres  tot  eissamens, 
De  vos  trab  sa  earn  humana 
Jhesii-Chri.-t  nostrc  snlvaire; 
Si  com  PCS  trencamens  fairo 
Intra'l  bel  rais  quan  solelha 
Per  la  fenestra  veirina." 


THE   VILLAGE    OF   EL   PARDILLO.  203 

"  To  limbo,  to  glorify  the  souls  of  the  holy 
fathers." 

"  And  the  body  ?  " 

"  It  was  carried  to  the  grave.1' 

"  Did  the  divinity  remain  united  with  the  spirit 
or  with  the  body  ?  " 

"  With  both.  As  a  soldier,  when  he  unsheathes 
his  sword,  remains  united  both  with  the  sword  and 
the  sheath,  though  they  are  separated  from  each 
other,  so  did  the  divinity  remain  united  both  with 
the  spirit  and  body  of  Christ,  though  the  spirit  was 
separated  and  removed  from  the  body." 

I  did  not  quarrel  with  the  priest  for  having 
been  born  and  educated  in  a  different  faith  from 
mine ;  but  as  I  left  the  church  and  sauntered 
slowly  homeward,  I  could  not  help  asking  myself, 
in  a  whisper,  Why  perplex  the  spirit  of  a  child 
with  these  metaphysical  subtilties,  these  dark, 
mysterious  speculations,  which  man  in  all  his  pride 
of  intellect  cannot  fathom  or  explain  ? 

I  must  not  forget,  in  this  place,  to  make  honor 
able  mention  of  the  little  great  men  of  El  Par- 
dillo.  And  first  in  order  comes  the  priest.  He 
was  a  short,  portly  man,  serious  in  manner,  and 
of  grave  and  reverend  presence  ;  though  at  the 
same  time  there  was  a  dash  of  the  jolly-fat-friar 
about  him ;  and  on  hearing  a  good  joke  or  a  sly 
innuendo,  a  smile  would  gleam  in  his  eye,  and 
play  over  his  round  face,  like  the  light  of  a  glow 
worm.  His  housekeeper  was  a  brisk,  smiling  little 
woman,  on  the  shady  side  of  thirty,  and  a  coasin 


204  HIE   VILLAGE   OF   EL   PARDILLO. 

of  his  to  boot.  Whenever  she  was  mentioned, 
Don  Vajentin  looked  wise,  as  if  this  cousinship 
were  apocryphal ;  but  he  said  nothing, — not  he ; 
what  right  had  he  to  be  peeping  into  other  people's 
business,  when  he  had  only  one  eye  to  look  after 
his  own  withal?  Next  in  rank  to  the  Dominie 
was  the  Alcalde,  justice  of  the  peace  and  quorum ; 
a  most  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  personage, 
with  a  long  beak  of  a  nose,  and  a  pouch  under  his 
chin,  like  a  pelican.  He  was  a  man  of  few  words, 
but  great  in  authority;  and  his  importance  was 
vastly  increased  in  the  village  by  a  pair  of  double- 
barrelled  spectacles,  so  contrived  that,  when  bent 
over  his  desk  and  deeply  buried  in  his  musty 
papers,  he  could  look  up  and  see  what  was  going 
on  around  him  without  moving  his  head,  whereby 
he  got  the  reputation  of  seeing  twice  as  much  as 
other  people.  There  was  the  village  surgeon,  too, 
a  tall  man  with  a  varnished  hat  and  a  starved 
dog;  he  had  studied  at  the  University  of  Sala 
manca,  and  was  pompous  and  pedantic,  ever  and 
anon  quoting  some  threadbare  maxim  from  the 
Greek  philosophers,  and  embellishing  it  with  a 
commentary  of  his  own.  Then  there  was  the 
grey-headed  Sacristan,  who  rang  the  church-bell, 
played  on  the  organ,  and  was  learned  in  tombstone 
lore  ;  a  Politician,  who  talked  me  to  death  about 
taxes,  liberty,  and  the  days  of  the  constitution 
and  a  Notary  Public,  a  poor  man  with  a  large 
family,  who  would  make  a  paper  cigar  last  half  an 
noar,  nnd  who  kept  up  his  respectability  in  th« 
village  by  keeping  a  horse. 


THE  VILLAGE   OF   EL   PARDILLO.  205 

Beneath  the  protecting  shade  of  these  great  men 
full  many  an  inhabitant  of  El  Pardillo  was  born 
and  buried.  The  village  continued  to  flourish,  a 
quiet,  happy  place,  though  all  unknown  to  fame. 
The  inhabitants  were  orderly  and  industrious,  went 
regularly  to  mass  and  confession,  kept  every  saint's 
day  in  the  calendar,  and  devoutly  hung  Judas 
once  a  year  in  effigy.  On  Sundays  and  all  other 
holidays,  when  mass  was  over,  the  time  was  de 
voted  to  sports  and  recreation ;  and  the  day  passed 
off  in  social  visiting,  and  athletic  exorcises,  such  as 
running,  leaping,  wrestling,  pitching  quoits,  and 
heaving  the  bar.  AVrhen  evening  came,  the  merry 
sound  of  the  guitar  summoned  to  the  dance ;  then 
every  nook  and  alley  poured  forth  its  youthful 
company, — light  of  heart  and  heel,  and  decked  out 
in  all  the  holiday  finery  of  flowers,  and  ribbons, 
and  crimson  sashes.  A  group  gathered  before  the 
cottage  door;  the  signal  was  given,  and  away 
whirled  the  merry  dancers  to  the  wild  music  of 
voice  and  guitar,  and  the  measured  beat  of  Castanet 
and  tambourine. 

I  love  these  rural  dances, — from  my  heart  I  love 
them.  This  world,  at  best,  is  so  full  of  care  and 
Borrow, — the  life  of  a  poor  man  is  so  stained  with 
the  sweat  of  his  brow, — there  is  so  much  toil,  and 
struggling,  and  anguish,  and  disappointment  here 
below,  that  I  gaze  with  delight  on  a  scene  where 
all  these  are  laid  aside  and  forgotten,  and  the 
heart  of  the  toil-worn  peasant  seems  to  throw  off 
its  load,  and  to  leap  to  the  sound  of  music,  when 
merrilv, 


20G  THE    VILLAGE   OF   EL   PAltDII.LO. 

"  beneath  soft  eve's  consenting  star, 
Fandungo  twirls  his  jocund  Castanet." 

Not  many  miles  from  the  village  of  El  Panlillo 
stands  the  ruined  castle  of  Villafranca,  an  ancient 
stronghold  of  the  Moors  of  the  fifteenth  century. 
It  is  built  upon  the  summit  of  a  hill,  of  easy  ascent 
upon  one  side,  but  precipitous  and  inaccessible  on 
the  other.  The  front  presents  a  large  square 
tower,  constituting  the  main  part  of  the  castle ;  on 
one  side  of  which  an  arched  gateway  leads  to  a 
spacious  court-yard  within,  surrounded  by  battle 
ments.  The  corner  towers  are  circular,  with  beet 
ling  turrets ;  and  here  and  there,  apart  from  the 
main  body  of  the  castle,  stand  several  circular 
basements,  whose  towers  have  fallen  and  mouldered 
into  dust.  From  the  balcony  in  the  square  tower, 
the  eye  embraces  the  level  landscape  for  leagues 
and  leagues  around ;  and  beneath,  in  the  depth  of 
the  valley,  lies  a  beautiful  grove,  alive  with  the 
song  of  the  nightingale.  The  whole  castle  is  in 
ruin,  and  occupied  only  as  a  hunting-lodge,  being 
inhabited  by  a  solitary  tenant,  who  has  charge  of 
the  adjacent  domain. 

One  holiday,  when  mass  was  said,  and  the  whole 
village  was  let  loose  to  play,  we  made  a  pilgrimage 
to  the  ruins  of  this  old  Moorish  alcdzar.  Our 
cavalcade  was  as  motley  as  that  of  old, — the  pil 
grims  "  that  toward  Canterbury  wolden  ride ; "  for 
we  had  the  priest,  and  the  doctor  of  physic,  and 
the  man  of  laws,  and  a  wife  of  Bath,  and  many 
more  whom  I  must  leave  unsung.  Merrily  flew 


THE    VILLAGE    OF    EL    PARDILLO.  207 

the  hours  and  fast ;  and  sitting  after  dinner  in  the 
gloomy  hall  of  that  old  castle,  many  a  tale  was  told, 
and  many  a  legend  and  tradition  of  the  past  con 
jured  up  to  satisfy  the  curiosity  of  the  present. 

Most  of  these  tales  were  about  the  Moors  who 
built  the  castle,  and  the  treasures  they  had  buried 
beneath  it.  Then  the  priest  told  the  story  of  a 
lawyer  who  sold  himself  to  the  devil  for  a  pot  of 
money,  and  was  burnt  by  the  Holy  Inquisition 
therefor.  In  his  confession,  he  told  how  he  had 
learned  from  a  Jew  the  secret  of  raising  the  devil ; 
how  he  went  to  the  castle  at  midnight  with  a  book 
which  the  Jew  gave  him,  and,  to  make  the  charm 
sure,  carried  with  him  a  load-stone,  six  nails  from 
the  coffin  of  a  child  of  three  years,  six  tapers  of 
rosewax,  made  by  a  child  of  four  years,  the  skin 
and  blood  of  a  young  kid,  an  iron  fork,  with  which 
the  kid  had  been  killed,  a  few  hazel-rods,  a  flask 
of  high-proof  brandy,  and  some  lignum-vitse  char 
coal  to  make  a  fire.  When  he  read  in  the  book, 
ths  devil  appeared  in  the  shape  of  a  man  dressed 
in  flesh-colored  clothes,  with  long  nails,  and  large 
fiery  eyes,  and  he  signed  an  agreement  with  him 
written  in  blood,  promising  never  to  go  to  mass, 
and  to  give  him  his  soul  at  the  end  of  eight  years ; 
in  return  for  this,  he  was  to  have  a  million  of  dol 
lars  in  good  money,  which  the  devil  was  to  bring 
to  him  the  next  night;  but  when  the  next  night 
came,  and  the  lawyer  had  conjured  from  his  book, 
instead  of  the  devil,  there  appeared, — who  do  you 
think  ? — the  alcalde,  with  half  the  village  at  Ms 


208  THE    VILLAGE   OF    EL   PARDILLO. 

heels,  and  the  poor  lawyer  was  handed  over  to  tho 
Inquisition,  and  burnt  for  dealing  in  the  black 
art. 

I  intended  to  repeat  hare  some  of  the  many  talcs 
that  were  told ;  but,  upon  reflection,  they  seem  too 
frivolous,  and  must  therefore  give  place  to  a  more 
serious  theme 


THE   DEVOTIONAL   POETRY   OF 
SPAIN. 

Heaven's  dove,  when  highest  he  flies, 
Flics  with  thy  heavenly  wings. 

CEASHAW. 

THERE  is  hardly  a  chapter  in  literary  history 
more  strongly  marked  with  the  peculiarities  of 
national  character  than  that  which  contains  the 
moral  and  devotional  poetry  of  Spain.  It  would 
naturally  be  expected  that  in  this  department  of 
literature  all  the  fervency  and  depth  of  national 
feeling  would  be  exhibited.  But  still,  as  the  spirit 
of  morality  and  devotion  is  the  same,  wherever  it 
exists, — as  the  enthusiasm  of  virtue  and  religion  is 
everywhere  essentially  the  same  feeling,  though 
modified  in  its  degree  and  in  its  action  by  a  variety 
of  physical  causes  and  local  circumstances, — and 
as  the  subject  of  the  didactic  verse  and  the  spiritual 
canticle  cannot  be  materially  changed  by  the 
change  of  nation  and  climate,  it  might  at  the  first 
glance  seem  quite  as  natural  to  expect  that  the 
moral  and  devotional  poetry  of  Christian  countries 
would  never  be  very  strongly  marked  with  national 

VOL.  i.  14 


210      THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN. 

peculiarities.  In  other  -words,  we  should  expect  it 
to  correspond  to  the  warmth  or  coldness  of  national 
feeling,  for  it  is  the  external  and  visible  expression 
of  this  feeling ;  but  not  to  the  distinctions  of  na 
tional  character,  because,  its  nature  and  object 
being  everywhere  the  same,  these  distinctions 
become  swallowed  up  in  one  universal  Christian 
character. 

In  moral  poetry  this  is  doubtless  true.  The 
great  principles  of  Christian  morality  being  eternal 
and  invariable,  the  verse  which  embodies  and  rep 
resents  them  must,  from  this  very  circumstance, 
be  the  same  in  its  spirit  through  all  Christian  lands. 
The  same,  however,  is  not  necessarily  true  of  devo 
tional  or  religious  poetry.  There,  the  language  of 
poetry  is  something  more  than  the  visible  image  of 
a  devotional  spirit.  It  is  also  an  expression  of 
religious  faith;  shadowing  forth,  with  greater  or 
less  distinctness,  its  various  creeds  and  doctrines. 
As  these  are  different  in  different  nations,  the 
spirit  that  breathes  in  religious  song,  and  the  letter 
that  gives  utterance  to  the  doctrine  of  faith,  will 
not  be  universally  the  same.  Tims,  Catholic 
nations  sing  the  praises  of  the  Virgin  Mary  in  lan 
guage  in  which  nations  of  the  Protestant  faith  do 
not  unite ;  and  among  Protestants  themselves,  the 
difference  of  interpretations,  and  the  consequent 
belief  or  disbelief  of  certain  doctrines,  give  a  vari 
ous  spirit  and  expression  to  religious  poetry.  And 
yet,  in  all,  the  devotional  feeling,  the  heavenward 
volition,  is  the  same. 


THE   DEVOTIONAL   POETRY   OF   SPAIN.     211 

As  far,  then,  as  peculiarities  of  religious  faith 
exercise  an  influence  upon  intellectual  habits,  and 
thus  become  a  part  of  national  character,  so  far  will 
the  devotional  or  religious  poetry  of  a  country  ex 
hibit  the  characteristic  peculiarities  resulting  from 
this  influence  of  faith,  and  its  assimilation  with  the 
national  mind.  Now  Spain  is  by  preeminence  tho 
Catholic  land  of  Christendom.  Most  of  her  historic 
recollections  are  more  or  less  intimately  associated 
with  the  triumphs  of  the  Christian  faith ;  and  many 
of  her  warriors — of  her  best  and  bravest — were  mar 
tyrs  in  the  holy  cause,  perishing  in  that  war  of  cen 
turies  which  was  carried  on  within  her  own  territo 
ries  between  the  crescent  of  Mahomet  and  the 
cross  of  Christ.  Indeed,  the  whole  tissue  of  her 
history  is  interwoven  with  miraculous  tradition. 
The  intervention  of  her  patron  saint  has  saved  her 
honor  in  more  than  one  dangerous  pass  ;  and  the 
war-shout  of  "  Santiago,  y  cierra  Espana  !  "  has 
worked  like  a  charm  upon  the  wavering  spirit  of 
the  soldier.  A  reliance  on  the  guardian  ministry 
of  the  saints  pervades  the  whole  people,  and  devo 
tional  offerings  for  signal  preservation  in  times  of 
danger  and  distress  cover  the  consecrated  walls  of 
churches.  An  enthusiasm  of  religious  feeling,  and 
of  external  ritual  observances,  prevails  throughout 
the  land.  But  more  particularly  is  the  name  of 
the  Virgin  honored  and  adored.  Ave  Maria  is  the 
salutation  of  peace  at  the  friendly  threshold,  and 
the  God-speod  to  the  wayfarer.  It  is  the  evening 
orison,  whei.  the  toils  of  day  are  done;  and  at 


212     THE   DEVOTIONAL   POETRY   OF    SPAIN. 

midnight  it  echoes  along  the  solitary  streets  in  tho 
voice  of  the  watchman's  cry. 

These  and  similar  peculiarities  of  religious  faith 
are  breathing  and  moving  through  a  large  portion 
of  the  devotional  poetry  of  Spain.  It  is  not  only 
instinct  with  religious  feeling,  but  incorporated 
with  "  the  substance  of  things  not  seen."  Not  only 
are  the  poet's  lips  touched  with  a  coal  from  the 
altar,  but  his  spirit  is  folded  in  the  cloud  of  incense 
that  rises  before  tho  shrines  of  the  Virgin  Mother, 
and  the  glorious  company  of  the  saints  and  mar 
tyrs.  His  soul  is  not  wholly  swallowed  up  in  the 
contemplation  of  the  sublime  attributes  of  the 
Eternal  Mind ;  but,  with  its  lamp  trimmed  and 
burning,  it  goeth  out  to  meet  the  bridegroom,  as  if 
he  were  coming  in  a  bodily  presence. 

The  history  of  the  devotional  poetry  of  Spain 
commences  with  the  legendary  lore  of  Maestro 
Gonzalo  de  Berceo,  a  secular  priest,  whose  life  was 
passed  in  the  cloisters  of  a  Benedictine  convent,  and 
amid  the  shadows  of  the  thirteenth  century.  The 
name  of  Berceo  stands  foremost  on  the  catalogue  of 
Spanish  poets,  for  the  author  of  the  Poem  of  the 
Cid  is  unknown.  The  old  patriarch  of  Spanish 
poetry  has  left  a  monument  of  his  existence  in  up 
wards  of  thirteen  thousand  alexandrines,  celebrat 
ing  the  lives  and  miracles  of  saints  and  the  Virgin, 
as  he  found  them  written  in  the  Latin  chronicles 
and  dusty  legends  of  his  monastery.  In  embody 
ing  these  in  rude  verse  in  roman  paladino,  or  the 
old  Spanish  romance  tongue,  intelligible  to  tho 


THE   DEVOTIONAL   POETRY   OF    SPAIN.     213 

common  people,  Fray  Gonzalo  seems  to  have  passed 
his  life.  His  writings  are  just  such  as  we  should 
expect  from  the  pen  of  a  monk  of  the  thirteenth 
century.  They  are  more  ghostly  than  poetical; 
and  throughout,  unction  holds  the  place  of  inspira 
tion.  Accordingly,  they  illustrate  very  fully  the 
preceding  remarks ;  and  the  more  so,  inasmuch  as 
they  are  written  with  the  most  ample  and  childish 
credulity,  and  the  utmost  singleness  of  faith  touch 
ing  the  events  and  miracles  described. 

The  following  extract  is  taken  from  one  of  Ber- 
ceo's  poems,  entitled  "  Vida  de  San  Millan"  It  is 
a  description  of  the  miraculous  appearance  of  San 
tiago  and  San  Milan,  mounted  on  snow-white 
steeds,  and  fighting  for  the  cause  of  Christendom, 
at  the  battle  of  Simancas  in  the  Campo  de  Toro. 

And  when  the  kings  were  in  the  field, — their  squadrons 

in  array, — 
With  lance  in  rest  they  onward  pressed  to  mingle  in  the 

fray; 

But  soon  upon  the  Christians  fell  a  terror  of  their  foes, — 
These  were  a  numerous  army, — a  little  handful  those. 

And  while  the  Christian  people  stood  hi  this  uncertainty, 
Upward  to  heaven  they  turned  their  eyes,  and  fixed  their 

thoughts  on  high; 

And  there  two  figures  they  beheld,  all  beautiful  and  bright, 
Even  than  the  pure  new-fallen  snow  their  garments  were 

more  white. 

They  rode  upon  two  horses  more  white  than  crystal  sheen, 
And  arms  they  bore  such  as  before  no  mortal  man  had 


214     THE   DEVOTIONAL   POETRY   OF    SPAIN. 

The  one,  he  held  a  crosier, — a  pontiff's  mitre  wore; 
The  other  held  a  crucifix, — such  man  ne'er  saw  before. 

Their  faces  were  angelical,  celestial  forms  had  they, — 
And  downward  through  the  fields  of  air  they  urged  theif 

rapid  way; 
They  looked  upon  the  Moorish  host  with  fierce  and  angry 

look, 
And  in  their  hands,  with  dire  portent,  their  naked  sabres 

shook. 

The  Christian  host,  beholding  this,  straightway  take  heart 

again; 
They  fall  upon  their  bended  knees,  all  resting  on  the 

plain, 
And  each  one  with  his  clenched  fist  to  smite  his  breast 

begins, 
And  promises  to  God  on  high  he  will  forsake  his  sins. 

And  when  the  heavenly  knights  drew   near   unto  the 

battle-ground, 
They  dashed  among  the  Moors  and  dealt  unerring  blows 

around ; 
Such  deadly  havoc  there  they  made  the  foremost  ranks 

along, 
&  panic  terror  spread  unto  the  hindmost  of  the  throng. 

Together  with  these  two  good  knights,  the  champions  of 

the  sky, 
She  Christians  rallied  and  began  to  smite  full  sore  and 

high ; 
'he  Moors  raised  up  their  voices  and  by  the  Koran 

swore, 
/hat  in  their  lives  such  deadly  fray  they  ne'er  had  seen 

before. 


THE   DEVOTIONAL    POETRY   OF   SPAIN.     215 

Down    went    the   misbelievers, — fast  sped    the   bloody 

fight,- 
Some  ghastly  and  dismembered  lay,  and  some  half  dead 

with  fright: 

Full  sorely  they  repented  that  to  the  field  they  came, 
For  they  saw  that  from  the  battle  they  should  retreat 

with  shame. 

Another  thing  befell  them, — they  dreamed  not  of  such 

woes, — 
The  very  arrows  that  the  Moors  shot  from  their  twanging 

bows 
Turned  back  against  them  in  their  flight  and  wounded 

them  full  sore, 
And  every  blow  they  dealt  the  foe  was   paid  in  drops  of 

gore. 

Now  he  that  bore  the  crosier,  and  the  papal  crown  had  on, 
Was  the  glorified  Apostle,  the  brother  of  Saint  John; 
And  he  that  held  the  crucifix,  and  wore  the  monkish 

hood, 
Was  the  holy  San  Millan  of  Cogolla's  neighbourhood. 

Berceo's  longest  poem  is  entitled  "  Miraclos  da 
Nuestra  SeTiora"  Miracles  of  Our  Lady.  It  con 
sists  of  nearly  four  thousand  lines,  and  contains  the 
description  of  twenty-five  miracles.  It  is  a  com 
plete  homily  on  the  homage  and  devotion  due  to 
the  glorious  Virgin,  Madre  de  Jhu  A'to,  Mother  of 
Jesus  Christ ;  but  it  is  written  in  a  low  and  vulgar 
style,  strikingly  at  variance  with  the  elevated  char 
acter  of  the  subject.  Thus,  in  the  twentieth  mir 
acle,  we  have  the  account  of  a  monk  who  became 
intoxicated  in  a  wine  cellar.  Having  lain  CA  the 


216     THE   DEVOTIONAL   POETRY   OF   SPAIN. 

floor  till  the  vesper  bell  aroused  him,  he  staggered 
off  towards  the  church  in  most  melancholy  plight. 
The  Evil  One  besets  him  on  the  way,  assuming  the 
various  shapes  of  a  bull,  a  dog,  and  a  lion  ;  but 
from  all  these  perils  he  is  miraculously  saved  by  the 
timely  intervention  of  the  Virgin,  who,  finding  him 
still  too  much  intoxicated  to  make  his  way  to  bed, 
kindly  takes  him  by  the  hand,  leads  him  to  his  pal 
let,  covers  him  with  a  blanket  and  a  counterpane, 
smooths  his  pillow,  and,  after  making  the  sign  of 
the  cross  over  him,  tells  him  to  rest  quietly,  for 
sleep  will  do  him  good. 

To  a  certain  class  of  minds  there  may  be  some 
thing  interesting  and  even  affecting  in  descriptions 
which  represent  the  spirit  of  a  departed  saint  as 
thus  assuming  a  corporeal  shape,  in  order  to  assist 
and  console  human  nature  even  in  its  baser  infirn? 
ities ;  but  it  ought  also  to  be  considered  how  much 
such  descriptions  tend  to  strip  religion  of  its  pecu 
liar  sanctity,  to  bring  it  down  from  its  heavenly 
abode,  not  merely  to  dwell  among  men,  but,  like  an 
imprisoned  culprit,  to  be  chained  to  the  derelict  of 
principle,  manacled  with  the  base  desire  and  earthly 
passion,  and  forced  to  do  the  menial  offices  of  a 
slave.  In  descriptions  of  this  kind,  as  in  the  rep 
resentations  of  our  Saviour  and  of  sainted  spirits 
in  a  human  shape,  execution  must  of  necessity  fall 
far  short  of  the  conception.  The  handiwork  can 
not  equal  the  glorious  archetype,  which  is  visible 
only  to  the  mental  eye.  Painting  and  sculpture 
ire  not  adequate  to  the  task  of  embodying  in  ft 


THE   DEVOTIONAL   POETRY   OF   SPADT.     217 

permanent  shape  the  glorious  visions,  the  radiant 
forms,  the  glimpses  of  heaven,  which  fill  the  imag 
ination,  when  purified  and  exalted  by  devotion. 
The  hand  of  man  unconsciously  inscribes  upon  all 
his  works  the  sentence  of  imperfection,  which  the 
finger  of  the  invisible  hand  wrote  upon  the  wall  of 
the  Assyrian  monarch.  From  this  it  would  seern. 
to  be  not  only  a  natural  but  a  necessary  conclusion, 
that  all  the  descriptions  of  poetry  which  borrow 
any  thing,  either  directly  or  indirectly,  from  these 
bodily  and  imperfect  representations,  must  partake 
of  their  imperfection,  and  assume  a  more  earthly 
and  material  character  than  those  which  come 
glowing  and  burning  from  the  more  spiritualized 
perceptions  of  the  internal  sense. 

It  is  very  far  from  my  intention  to  utter  any 
sweeping  denunciation  against  the  divine  arts  of 
painting  and  sculpture,  as  employed  in  the  exhibi 
tion  of  scriptural  scenes  and  personages.  These  I 
esteem  meet  ornaments  for  the  house  of  God  ; 
though,  as  I  have  already  said,  their  execution 
cannot  equal  the  high  conceptions  of  an  ardent 
imagination,  yet,  whenever  the  hand  of  a  master 
is  visible, — when  the  marble  almost  moves  before 
you,  and  the  painting  starts  into  life  from  the  can 
vas,- — the  effect  upon  an  enlightened  mind  will 
generally,  if  not  universally,  be  to  quicken  its  sen 
sibilities  and  excite  to  more  ardent  devotion,  by 
carrying  the  thoughts  beyond  the  representations 
of  bodily  suffering,  to  the  contemplation  of  the 
in  tenser  mental  agony, — the  moral  sublimity  ex- 


218     T1IE    DEVOTIONAL    POETUV    OF    SPAIN. 

hibited  by  the  martyr.  The  impressions  produced, 
however,  will  not  be  the  same  in  .all  minds ;  they 
will  necessarily  vary  according  to  the  prevailing 
temper  and  complexion  of  the  mind  which  receives 
them.  As  there  is  no  sound  where  there  is  no  ear 
to  receive  the  impulses  and  vibrations  of  the  air,  so 
is  there  no  moral  impression, — no  voice  of  instruc 
tion  from  all  the  works  of  nature,  and  all  the  imita 
tions  of  art, — unless  there  be  within  the  soul  itself 
a  capacity  for  hearing  the  voice  and  receiving  the 
moral  impulse.  The  cause  exists  eternally  and 
universally ;  but  the  effect  is  produced  only  when 
and  where  the  cause  has  room  to  act,  and  just  in 
proportion  as  it  has  room  to  act  Hence  the 
various  moral  impressions,  and  the  several  degrees 
of  the  same  moral  impression,  which  an  object  may 
produce  in  different  minds.  These  impressions 
will  vary  in  kind  and  in  degree  according  to  the 
acuteness  and  the  cultivation  of  the  internal  moral 
sense.  And  thus  the  representations  spoken  of 
above  might  exercise  a  very  favorable  influence 
upon  an  enlightened  and  well  regulated  mind,  and 
at  the  same  time  a  very  unfavorable  influence  upon 
an  unenlightened  and  superstitious  one.  And  the 
reason  is  obvious.  An  enlightened  mind  beholds 
all  things  in  their  just  proportions,  and  receives 
from  them  the  true  impressions  they  are  calculated 
to  convey.  It  is  not  hoodwinked, — it  is  not  shut 
up  in  a  gloomy  prison,  till  it  thinks  the  walls  of  its 
own  dungeon  the  limits  of  the  universe,  and  the 
reach  of  its  own  chain  the  outer  verge  of  all  iutel- 


THE   DEVOTIONAL   POETRY   OF   SPAIN.      219 

ligence;  but  it  walks  abroad;  the  sunshine  and 
the  air  pour  in  to  enlighten  and  expand  it;  the 
•various  works  of  nature  are  its  ministering  angels ; 
the  glad  recipient  of  light  and  wisdom,  it  develops 
new  powers  and  acquires  increased  capacities,  and 
thus,  rendering  itself  less  subject  to  error,  assumes 
a  nearer  similitude  to  the  Eternal  Mind.  But  not 
so  the  dark  and  superstitious  mind.  It  is  filled 
with  its  own  antique  and  mouldy  furniture, — the 
moth-eaten  tome,  the  gloomy  tapestry,  the  dusty 
curtain.  The  straggling  sunbeam  from  without 
streams  through  the  stained  window,  and  as  it 
enters  assumes  the  colors  of  the  painted  glass; 
while  the  half-extinguished  fire  within,  now  smoul 
dering  in  its  ashes  and  now  shooting  forth  a  quiver 
ing  flame,  casts  fantastic  shadows  through  the 
chambers  of  the  soul.  Within,  the  spirit  sits,  lost 
in  its  own  abstractions.  The  voice  of  nature  from 
without  is  hardly  audible ;  her  beauties  are  unseen, 
or  seen  only  in  shadowy  forms,  through  a  colored 
medium,  and  with  a  strained  and  distorted  vision. 
The  invigorating  air  does  not  enter  that  myste 
rious  chamber;  it  visits  not  that  lonely  inmate, 
who,  breathing  only  a  close,  exhausted  atmosphere, 
exhibits  in  the  languid  frame  and  feverish  pulso 
the  marks  of  lingering,  incurable  disease.  The 
picture  is  not  too  strongly  sketched ;  such  is  the  con 
trast  between  the  free  and  the  superstitious  mind 
Upon  the  latter,  which  has  little  power  over  its 
ideas, — to  generalize  them,  to  place  them  in  their 
proper  light  and  position,  to  reason  upon,  to  dis- 


220      THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETEY    OF    SPAIN. 

criminate,  to  judge  them  in  detail,  and  thus  to 
arrive  at  just  conclusions ;  but,  on  the  contrary, 
receives  every  crude  and  inadequate  impression  as 
it  first  presents  itself,  and  treasures  it  up  as  an  ulti 
mate  fact, — upon  such  a  mind,  representations  of 
Scripture-scenes,  like  those  mentioned  above,  exer 
cise  an  unfavorable  influence.  Such  a  mind 
cannot  rightly  estimate,  it  cannot  feel,  the  work  of 
a  master ;  and  a  miserable  painting,  or  a  still  more 
miserable  caricature  carved  in  wood,  will  serve 
only  the  more  to  drag  the  spirit  down  to  earth 
Thus  in  the  unenlightened  mind,  these  represcnta 
tions  have  a  tendency  to  sensualize  and  desecrate 
the  character  of  holy  things.  Being  brought  con 
stantly  before  the  eye,  and  represented  in  a  real 
and  palpable  form  to  the  external  senses,  they  lose, 
by  being  made  too  familiar,  that  peculiar  sanctity 
with  which  the  mind  naturally  invests  the  unearthly 
and  invisible. 

It  is  curious  to  observe  the  influence  of  the  cir 
cumstances  just  referred  to  upon  the  devotional 
poetry  of  Spain.*  Sometimes  it  exhibits  itself 


*The  following  beautiful  little  hymn  in  Latin,  •written  by  the 
celebrated  Francisco  Xavier,  the  friend  and  companion  of  Loyola, 
and  from  his  zeal  in  the  Eastern  missions  surnamed  the  Apostle 
of  the  Indies,  would  hardly  have  originated  in  any  mind  but  that 
of  one  familiar  with  the  representations  of  which  I  hare  spoken 
above. 

ODeus!  egoamo  te: 

Nee  amo  to,  ut  salves  me, 

Aut  quia  non  amantes  te 

JJteruo  puuis  igne. 


THE   DEVrOTIONAL   POETRY   OF   SPAIN.     221 

Directly  and  fully,  sometimes  indirectly  and  inci 
dentally,  but  always  with  sufficient  clearness  to 


_  Tu,  tu,  mi  Jesu,  totum  me 
Amplexus  es  in  cruce. 
Tulisti  clavos,  lanceam, 
Multamque  ignominiam : 
Innumeros  dolorcs, 
Sudores  et  angores, 
Ac  mortem :  et  hacc  propter  me 
Ac  pro  me  peccatore. 

Our  igltur  non  amem  te, 
0  Jesu  amantissime? 
Non  ut  in  coelo  salves  me, 
Aut  ne  seternum  damnes  me, 
Nee  proemii  ullius  spe : 
Sed  sicut  tu  amasti  me, 
Sic  amo  et  amabo  te : 
Solum  quia  rex  meus  «s, 
Et  solum  quia  Deus  es. 
Amen. 

0  God!  my  spirit  lores  but  thee : 
Not  that  in  heaven  its  home  may  be, 
Nor  that  the  souls  which  love  not  thee 
Shall  groan  in  fire  eternally. 

But  thou  on  the  accursed  tree 

In  mercy  hast  embraced  me. 

For  me  the  cruel  nails,  the  spear, 

The  ignominious  scoff,  didst  bear, 

Countless,  unutterable  woes, — 
'he  bloody  sweat, — death's  pangs  and  throes,- 
'hese  thou  didst  bear,  all  these  for  me, 
I  sinner  and  estranged  from  thee. 

And  wherefore  no  affection  show, 
fesus,  to  thee  that  lov'st  me  so? 


222     THE   DEVOTIONAL   POETRY   OF   SPAIN. 

indicate  its  origin.  Sometimes  it  destroys  the 
beauty  of  a  poem  by  a  miserable  conceit ;  at  other 
times  it  gives  it  the  character  of  a  beautiful  alle 
gory.* 

The  following  sonnets  will  serve  as  illustrations. 
They  are  from  the  hand  of  the  wonderful  Lope  do 
Vega  :— 

Shepherd !  that  with  thine  amorous  sylvan  song 
Hast  broken  the  slumber  that  encompassed  me, 
That  madest  thy  crook  from  the  accursed  tree 
On  which  thy  powerful  arms  were  stretched  so  long,— 
Lead  me  to  mercy's  ever-flowing  fountains, 

Not  that  in  heaven  my  home  may  be, 
Not  lest  I  die  eternally,— 
Nor  from  the  hopes  of  joys  above  me : 
But  even  as  thou  thyself  didst  love  me, 
So  love  I,  and  will  ever  love  thce : 
Solely  because  my  King  art  thou, 
My  God  for  evermore  as  now. 
Amen. 

» I  recollect  but  few  instances  of  this  kind  of  figurative  poetry 
In  our  language.  There  is,  however,  one  of  most  exquisite  beauty 
Hud  pathos,  far  surpassing  any  thing  I  have  seen  of  the  kind  io 
Epanish.  It  U  a  passage  from  Cowper. 

"  I  was  a  stricken  deer,  that  left  the  herd 

Long  since :  with  many  an  arrow  deep  infixt 

My  panting  side  was  charged,  when  I  withdrew 

To  seek  a  tranquil  death  in  distant  shades. 

There  was  I  found  by  one  who  had  himself 

Been  hurt  by  arcliers;  in  his  side  he  bore, 

And  in  his  hands  and  feet,  the  cruel  scars. 

With  gentle  force  soliciting  the  darts, 

He  drew  them  forth,  and  healed,  and  bade  me  lire." 


THE   DEVOTIONAL   TOETRY   OF    SPAIN.      223 

For  thou  my  shepherd,  guard,  and  guide  ghalt  be, 

I  will  obey  thy  voice,  and  wait  to  seo 

Thy  feet  all  beautiful  upon  the  mountains. 

Hear,  Shepherd ! — thou  that  for  thy  flock  art  dying, 

0,  wash  away  these  scarlet  sins,  for  thon 

Ilcjoicest  at  the  contrite  sinner's  vow. 

0,  wait ! — to  thee  my  weary  soul  is  crying, — 

Wait  for  me ! — yet  why  ask  it,  when  I  sec, 

With  feet  nailed  to  the  cross,  thou  art  waiting  still  for  ma  ? 


Lord,  what  am  I,  that  with  unceasing  care 
Thou  didst  seek  after  me, — that  thou  didst  wait, 
Wet  with  unhealthy  dews  before  my  gate, 
And  pass  the  gloomy  nights  of  winter  there  ? 
0  strange  delusion ! — that  I  did  not  greet 
Thy  blessed  approach !  and  0,  to  Heaven  how  lost, 
If  my  ingratitude's  unkindly  frost 
Has  chilled  the  bleeding  wounds  upon  thy  feet ! 
How  oft  my  guardian  angel  gently  cried, 
"  Soul,  from  thy  casement  look  without  and  see 
How  he  persists  to  knock  and  wait  for  thee !  " 
And  0,  how  often  to  that  voice  of  sorrow, 
"  To-morrow  we  will  open!  "  I  replied; 
And  when  the  morrow  came,  I  answered  still,  "  To  mor 
row  ! " 

The  most  remarkable  portion  of  the  devotional 
poetry  of  the  Spaniards  is  to  be  found  in  their 
sacred  dramas,  their  Vidas  de  Santos  and  Autos 
Sacrameniales.  These  had  their  origin  in  the 
Mysteries  and  Moralities  of  the  dark  ages,  and  are 
indeed  monstrous  creations  of  the  imagination.  The 
Vidas  de  Santos,  or  Lives  of  Saints,  are  representa 
tions  of  their  miracles,  and  of  the  wonderful  tradi- 


224     TIIE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY   OF    SPAIN. 

tions  concerning  them.  The  Autos  Sacramentales 
have  particular  reference  to  the  Eucharist  and  the 
ceremonies  of  the  Corpus  Christi.  In  these  theat 
rical  pieces  are  introduced  upon  the  stage,  not  only 
angels  and  saints,  but  God,  the  Saviour,  the  Virgin 
Mary ;  and,  in  strange  juxtaposition  with  these, 
devils,  peasants,  and  kings;  in  fine  they  contain 
the  strangest  medley  of  characters,  real  and  allegor 
ical,  which  the  imagination  can  conceive.  As  if 
this  were  not  enough,  in  the  midst  of  what  was  in 
tended  as  a  solemn,  religious  celebration,  scenes 
of  low  buffoonery  are  often  introduced. 

The  most  remarkable  of  the  Autos  which  I  have 
read  is  " La  Devotion  de  la  Cruz"  The  Devotion 
of  the  Cross.  It  is  one  of  the  most  celebrated  of 
Calderon's  sacred  dramas,  and  will  serve  as  a  speci 
men  of  that  class  of  writing.  The  piece  commences 
with  a  dialogue  between  Lisardo,  the  son  of  Curcio, 
a  decayed  nobleman,  and  Eusebio,  the  hero  of  the 
play  and  lover  of  Julia,  Lisardo's  sister.  Though 
the  father's  extravagance  has  wasted  his  estates, 
Lisardo  is  deeply  offended  that  Eusebio  should  as 
pire  to  an  alliance  with  the  family,  and  draws  him 
into  a  secluded  place  in  order  to  settle  their  dispute 
with  the  sword.  Here  the  scene  opens,  and  in  the 
course  of  the  dialogue  which  precedes  the  combat, 
Eusebio  relates  that  he  was  born  at  the  foot  of  a 
cross,  which  stood  in  a  rugged  and  desert  part  of 
those  mountains ;  that  the  virtue  of  this  cross  pre 
served  him  from  the  wild  beasts ;  that,  being  found 
by  a  peasant  three  days  after  his  birth,  he  was  car- 


THE    DEVOTIOXAL    POETR  i    OF    SPAIN.        225 

ried  to  a  neighbouring  village,  and  there  received 
the  name  of  Eusebio  of  the  Cross ;  that,  being 
thrown  by  his  nurse  into  a  well,  he  was  heard  to 
laugh,  and  was  found  floating  upon  the  top  of  the 
water,  with  his  hands  placed  upon  his  mouth  in  the 
form  of  a  cross;  that  the  house  in  which  he  dwelt 
being  consumed  by  fire,  he  escaped  unharmed  amid 
the  flames,  and  it  was  found  to  be  Corpus  Christ! 
day ;  and,  in  fine,  after  relating  many  other  similar 
miracles,  worked  by  the  power  of  the  cross,  at 
whose  foot  he  was  born,  he  says  that  he  bears  its 
image  miraculously  stamped  upon  his  breast.  After 
this  they  fight,  and  Lisardo  fails  mortally  wounded. 
In  the  next  scene,  Eusebio  has  an  interview  with 
Julia,  at  her  father's  house ;  they  are  interrupted, 
and  Eusebio  conceals  himself;  Curcio  enters,  and 
informs  Julia  that  he  has  determined  to  send  her 
that  day  to  a  convent,  that  she  may  take  the  veil, 
"para  scr  de  Cristo  esposa"  While  they  are  con 
versing,  the  dead  body  of  Lisardo  is  brought  in  by 
peasants,  and  Eusebio  is  declared  to.  be  the  mur 
derer.  The  scene  closes  by  the  escape  of  Eusebio. 
The  second  act,  or  Jornada,  discovers  Eusebio  as 
the  leader  of  a  band  of  robbers.  They  fire  upon 
a  traveller,  who  proves  to  be  a  priest,  named  Al 
berto,  and  who  is  seeking  a  spot  in  those  solitudes 
wherein  to  establish  a  hermitage.  The  shot  is  pre 
vented  from  taking  effect  by  a  book  which  the  pious 
old  man  carries  in  his  bosom,  and  which  he  says  is 
a  "  treatise  on  the  true  origin  of  the  divine  and 
heavenly  tree,  on  which,  dying  with  courage  and 
VOL.  i.  15 


220       Till!    DEVOTIONAL    POETISY    OF    SPAIN*. 

fortitude,  Christ  triumphed  over  death  ;  in  fine,  the 
book  is  called  the  *  Miracles  of  the  Cross/  "  They 
suffer  the  priest  to  depart  unharmed,  who  in  conse 
quence  promises  Eusebio  that  he  shall  not  die  with 
out  confession,  but  that  wherever  he  may  be,  if  he 
but  call  upon  his  name,  he  will  hasten  to  absolve 
him.  In  the  mean  time,  Julia  retires  to  a  convent, 
and  Curcio  goes  with  an  armed  force  in  pin-suit  oi 
Eusebio,  who  has  resolved  to  gain  admittance  to 
Julia's  convent.  He  scales  the  walls  of  the  convent 
by  night,  and  silently  gropes  his  way  along  the  cor 
ridor.  Julia  is  discovered  sleeping  in  her  cell,  with 
a  taper  beside  her.  He  is,  however,  deterred  from 
executing  his  malicious  designs,  by  discovering  upon 
her  breast  the  form  of  a  cross,  similar  to  that  uhic-h 
he  bears  upon  his  own,  and  "  Heaven  would  not 
suffer  him,  though  so  great  an  offender,  to  lose  his 
respect  for  the  cross."  To  be  brief,  he  leaps  from 
the  convent-walls  and  escapes  to  the  mountains. 
Julia,  counting  her  honor  lost,  having  offended 
God,  "  coma. a  Dios,  y  como  d  espom"  pursues  him, 
— descends  the  ladder  from  the  convent-wall,  and, 
when  she  seeks  to  return  to  her  cell,  finds  the  lad 
der  has  been  removed.  In  her  despair,  she  accusea 
Heaven  of  having  withdrawn  .its  clemency,  and 
vows  to  perform  such  deeds  of  wickedness  as  shall 
terrify  both  heaven  and  hell. 

The  third  Jornada  transports  the  scene  back  to 
the  mountains.  Julia,  disguised  in  man's  apparel, 
with  her  face  concealed,  is  brought  to  Eusebio  by  a 
party  of  the  banditti.  She  challenges  him  to  single 


THE   DEVOTIONAL   POETRY   OF   SPAIN.       227 

combat ;  and  he  accepts  the  challenge,  on  condi 
tion  that  his  antagonist  shall  declare  who  he  is. 
Julia  discovers  herself;  and  relates  several  horrid 
murders  she  has  committed  since  leaving  the  con 
vent.  Their  interview  is  here  interrupted  by  the 
entrance  of  banditti,  who  inform  Eusebio  that 
Curcio,  with  an  armed  force,  from  all  the  neigh 
bouring  villages,  is  approaching.  The  attack  com 
mences.  Eusebio  and  Curcio  meet,  but  a  secret 
and  mysterious  sympathy  prevents  them  from  fight 
ing;  and  a  great  number  of  peasants,  coming  in  at 
this  moment,  rush  upon  Eusebio  in  a  body,  and  he 
is  thrown  down  a  precipice.  There  Curcio  dis 
covers  him,  expiring  with  his  numerous  wounds. 
The  denouement  of  the  piece  commences.  Curcio, 
moved  by  compassion,  examines  a  wound  in  Euse- 
bio's  breast,  discovers  the  mark  of  the  cross,  and 
thereby  recognizes  him  to  be  his  son.  Eusebio 
expires,  calling  on  the  name  of  Alberto,  who  shortly 
after  enters,  as  if  lost  in  those  mountains.  A  voice 
from  the  dead  body  of  Eusebio  calls  his  name.  I 
shall  here  transcribe  a  part  of  the  scene. 

Eusebio.      Alberto ! 

Alberto.  Hark !— what  breath 

Of  fearful  voice  is  this, 

Which  uttering  my  name 

Sounds  in  my  ears  ? 

Eusebio  Alberto  I 

Alberto.      Again  it  doth  pronounce 

My  name :  methinks  the  voice 

Camo  from  this  side :  I  will 

Approach. 


228       THE    DEVOTIONAL   POETRY   OP    SPAIN. 

Eusebio.      Alberto! 

Alberto.  Hist !  more  near  it  sounds. 

Thou  voice,  that  ridest  swift 

The  wind,  and  utterest  my  name, 

Who  art  thou  ? 
Eusebio.  I  am  Eusebio. 

Come,  good  Alberto,  this  way  come, 

Where  sepulchred  I  lie ; 

Approach,  and  raise  these  branches : 

Fear  not. 
Alberto.  I  do  not  fear. 

[Discovers  the  body. 

Now  I  behold  thee. 

Speak,  in  God's  holy  name, 

What  wouldst  thou  with  me? 
Eusebio.  In  his  name, 

My  faith,  Alberto,  called  thee, 

That  previous  to  my  death 

Thou  hearest  my  confession. 

Long  since  I  should  have  died, 

For  this  stiff  corpse  resigned 

The  disembodied  soul; 

But  the  strong  mace  of  death 

Smote  only,  and  dissevered  not 

The  spirit  and  the  flesh.  [Ritet. 

Come,  then,  Alberto,  that  I  may 

Confess  my  sins;  for,  0,  they  are 

More  than  the  sands  beside  the  sea, 

Or  motes  that  fill  the  sunbeam  I 

So  much  with  Heaven  avails 

Devotion  to  the  cross ! 

Eusebio  then  retires  to  confess  himself  to  Alberto  • 
and  Curcio  afterward  relates,  that,  when  the  vener 
able  saint  had  given  him  absolution,  his  body  again 
fell  dead  at  his  feet.  Julia  discovers  herself,  over- 


THE   DEVOTIONAL   POETRY   OF   SPAIN.       229 

whelmed  with  the  thoughts  of  her  incestuous  pas 
sion  for  Eusebio  and  her  other  crimes,  and  as 
Curcio,  in  a  transport  of  indignation,  endeavours 
to  kill  her,  she  seizes  a  cross  which  stands  over 
Eusebio's  grave,  and  with  it  ascends  to  heaven, 
while  Alberto  shouts,  "  Gran  milagro  ! "  and  the 
curtain  falls. 

Thus  far  I  have  spoken  of  the  devotional  poetry 
of  Spain  as  modified  by  the  peculiarities  of  relig 
ious  faith  and  practice.  Considered  apart  from  the 
dogmas  of  a  creed,  and  as  the  expression  of  those 
pure  and  elevated  feelings  of  religion  which  are 
not  the  prerogative  of  any  one  sect  or  denomina 
tion,  but  the  common  privilege  of  all,  it  possesses 
strong  claims  to  our  admiration  and  praise.  I 
know  of  nothing  in  any  modern  tongue  so  beautiful 
as  some  of  its  finest  passages.  The  thought  springs 
heavenward  from  the  soul, — the  language  comes 
burning  from  the  lip.  The  imagination  of  the 
poet  seems  spiritualized;  with  nothing  of  earth, 
and  all  of  heaven, — a  heaven,  like  that  of  his  own 
native  clime,  without  a  cloud,  or  a  vapor  of  earth, 
to  obscure  its  brightness.  His  voice,  speaking  the 
harmonious  accents  of  that  noble  tongue,  seems  to 
flow  from  the  lips  of  an  angel, — melodious  to  the 
ear  and  to  the  internal  sense, — breathing  those 

"  Effectual  whispers,  whose  still  voice 
The  soul  itself  more  feels  than  hears." 

The  following  sonnets  of  Francisco  de  Aldana, 
a  writer  remarkable  for  the  beauty  of  his  concep- 


230       THE    DEVOTIONAL   POETRY   OF    SPAIX. 

-tions  and  the  harmony  of  his  verse,  are  illustrations 
of  this  remark.  In  what  glowing  language  he  de 
scribes  the  aspirations  of  the  soul  for  its  paternal 
heaven,  its  celestial  home  !  how  beautifully  he  por 
trays  in  a  few  lines  the  strong  desire,  the  ardent 
longing,  of  the  exiled  and  imprisoned  spirit  to  wing 
its  flight  away  and  be  at  rest !  The  strain  bears 
our  thoughts  upward  with  it ;  it  transports  us  to  the 
heavenly  country ;  it  whispers  to  the  soul, — Higher, 
immortal  spirit !  higher ! 

Clear  fount  of  light!  my  native  land  on  high, 

Bright  with  a  glory  that  shall  never  fade ! 

Mansion  of  truth !  without  a  veil  or  shade, 

Thy  holy  quiet  meets  the  spirit's  eye. 

There  dwells  the  soul  in  its  ethereal  essence, 

Gasping  no  longer  for  life's  feeble  breath ; 

But,  sentinelled  in  heaven,  its  glorious  presence 

With  pitying  eye  beholds,  yet  fears  not  death. 

Beloved  country !  banished  from  thy  shore, 

A  stranger  in  this  prison-house  of  clay, 

The  exiled  spirit  weeps  and  sighs  for  thee ! 

Heavenward  the  bright  perfections  I  adore 

Direct,  and  the  sure  promise  cheers  the  way, 

That  whither  love  aspires,  there  shall  my  dwelling  be. 


0  Lord !  that  seest  from  yon  starry  height 
Centred  in  one  the  future  and  the  past, 
Fashioned  in  thine  own  image,  see  how  fast 
The  world  obscures  in  me  what  once  was  bright ! 
Eternal  Sun !  the  warmth  which  thou  hast  given 
To  cheer  life's  flowery  April  fast  decays ; 
Yot  in  the  hoary  winter  of  my  days, 
Forever  green  shall  be  my  trust  in  Ileaven. 


THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN.      231 

Celestial  King!  0,  let  thy  presence  pass 
Before  my  spirit,  and  an  image  fail- 
Shall  meet  that  look  of  mercy  from  on  high, 
As  the  reflected  image  in  a  glass 
Doth  meet  the  look  of  him  who  seeks  it  there, 
And  owes  its  being  to  the  gazer's  eye. 

The  prevailing  characteristics  of  Spanish  devo 
tional  poetry  are  warmth  of  imagination,  and  depth 
and  sincerity  of  feeling.  The  conception  is  always 
striking  and  original,  and,  when  not  degraded  by 
dogmas,  and  the  poor,  puerile  conceits  arising  from 
them,  beautiful  and  sublime.  This  results  from  the 
frame  and  temperament  of  the  mind,  and  is  a 
general  characteristic  of  the  Spanish  poets,  not 
only  in  this  department  of  song,  but  in  all  others. 
The  very  ardor  of  imagination  which,  exercised 
upon  minor  themes,  leads  them  into  extravagance 
and  hyperbole,  when  left  to  act  in  a  higher  and 
wider  sphere  conducts  them  nearer  and  nearer  to 
perfection.  When  imagination  spreads  its  wings 
in  the  bright  regions  of  devotional  song, — in  the 
pure  empyrean, — judgment  should  direct  its  course, 
but  there  is  no  danger  of  its  soaring  too  high. 
The  heavenly  land  still  lies  beyond  its  utmost  flight. 
There  are  heights  it  cannot  reach ;  there  are  fields 
of  air  which  tire  its  wing ;  there  is  a  splendor  which 
dazzles  its  vision ; — for  there  is  a  glory  "  which  eye 
hath  not  seen,  nor  ear  heard,  nor  hath  it  entered 
into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive." 

But  perhaps  the  greatest  charm  of  the  devo 
tional  poets  of  Spain  is  their  sincerity.  Most  of 


232      THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY    OF    SPAIN. 

them  were  ecclesiastics, — men  who  had  in  sober 
truth  renounced  the  realities  of  this  life  for  the 
hopes  and  promises  of  another.  We  are  not  to 
suppose  that  all  who  take  holy  orders  are  saints  ; 
but  we  should  be  still  farther  from  believing  that 
all  are  hypocrites.  It  would  be  even  more  absurd 
to  suppose  that  none  are  sincere  in  their  professions 
lhan  that  all  are.  Besides,  with  whatever  feelings 
a  man  may  enter  the  monastic  life,  there  is  some 
thing  in  its  discipline  and  privations  which  has  a 
tendency  to  wean  the  mind  from  earth,  and  to  fix 
it  upon  heaven.  Doubtless  many  have  seemingl)1 
renounced  the  world  from  motives  of  worldly 
aggrandizement;  and  others  have  renounced  it 
because  it  has  renounced  them.  The  former  have 
carried  with  them  to  the  cloister  their  earthly 
ambition,  and  the  latter  their  dark  misanthropy; 
and  though  many  have  daily  kissed  the  cross  and 
yet  grown  hoary  in  iniquity,  and  shrived  their 
souls  that  they  might  sin  more  gayly  on, — yet  soli 
tude  works  miracles  in  the  heart,  and  many  who 
enter  the  cloister  from  worldly  motives  find  it  a 
school  wherein  the  soul  may  be  trained  to  more 
holy  purposes  and  desires.  There  is  not  half  the 
corruption  and  hypocrisy  within  the  convent's 
walls  that  the  church  bears  the  shame  of  hiding 
there.  Hermits  may  be  holy  men,  though  knaves 
have  sometimes  been  hermits.  Were  they  all 
hypocrites,  Avho  of  old  for  their  souls'  sake  exposed 
their  naked  bodies  to  the  burning  sun  of  Syria  ? 
Were  they,  who  wandered  houseless  in  the  soli- 


THE    DEVOTIONAL    POETRY   OF    SPA1X.     233 

tudcs  of  Engaddi  ?  Were  they,  who  dwelt  beneath 
the  palm-trees  by  the  Red  Sea  ?  O,  no !  They 
were  ignorant,  they  were  deluded,  they  were 
fanatic,  but  they  were  not  hypocrites  ;  if  there  be 
any  sincerity  in  human  professions  and  human 
actions,  they  were  not  hypocrites.  During  the 
Middle  Ages,  there  was  corruption  in  the  church, 
• — foul,  shameful  corruption ;  and  now  also  hypoc 
risy  may  scourge  itself  in  feigned  repentance,  and 
ambition  hide  its  face  beneath  a  hood ;  yet  all  is 
not  therefore  rottenness  that  wears  a  cowl.  Many 
a  pure  spirit,  through  heavenly-mindedness  and  an 
ardent  though  mistaken  z^al,  has  fled  from  the 
temptations  of  the  world  to  seek  in  solitude  and 
self-communion  a  closer  walk  with  God.  And  not 
in  vain.  They  have  found  the  peace  they  sought. 
They  have  felt,  indeed,  what  many  profess  to  feel, 
but  do  not  feel, — that  they  are  strangers  and 
sojourners  here,  travellers  who  are  bound  for  their 
home  in  a  far  country.  It  is  this  feeling  which  I 
speak  of  as  giving  a  peculiar  charm  to  the  devo 
tional  poetry  of  Spain.  Compare  its  spirit  with 
the  spirit  which  its  authors  have  exhibited  in  their 
lives.  They  speak  of  having  given  up  the  world, 
and  it  is  no  poetical  hyperbole;  they  speak  of 
longing  to  be  free  from  the  weakness  of  the  flesh, 
that  they  may  commence  their  conversation  in 
heaven, — and  we  feel  that  they  had  already  begun 
it  in  lives  of  penitence,  meditation,  and  prayer. 


THE 

PILGRIM'S    BREVIARY. 

If  thou  vouchsafe  to  read  this  treatise,  it  shall  seem  no  other- 
Vrise  to  thee  than  the  way  to  an  ordinary  traTcller, — sometime* 
fair,  sometimes  foul;  here  champaign,  there  enclosed;  barren  in 
one  place,  better  soyle  in  another;  by  woods,  groves,  hills,  dales, 
plaitia,  I  shall  lead  thee. 

BCRTON'S  ANATOMIZ  OF  MELANCHOLY. 

THE  glittering  spires  and  cupolas  of  Madrid 
have  sunk  behind  me.  Again  and  again  I  have 
turned  to  take  a  parting  look,  till  at  length  the 
last  trace  of  the  city  has  disappeared,  and  I  gaze 
only  upon  the  sky  above  it. 

And  now  the  sultry  day  is  passed ;  the  freshen 
ing  twilight  falls,  and  the  moon  and  the  evening 
Btar  are  in  the  sky.  This  river  is  the  Xarania. 
This  noble  avenue  of  trees  leads  to  Aranjuez. 
Already  its  lamps  begin  to  twinkle  in  the  distance. 
The  hoofs  of  our  weary  mules  clatter  upon  the 
wooden  bridge ;  the  public  square  opens  before  us ; 
yonder,  in  the  moonlight,  gleam  the  walls  of  the 
royal  palace,  and  near  it,  with  a  rushing  sound, 
*all  the  waters  of  the  Tajnis. 


WE  have  now  entered  the  vast  and  melancholy 
plains  of  La  Mancha, — a  land  to  which  the;  genius 


THE   PJT.GRIM'S    BREVIARY.  235 

of  Cervantes  has  given  a  vulgo-classic  fame.  Here 
are  the  windmills,  as  of  old ;  every  village  has  its 
Master  Nicholas, — every  venta  its  Maritornes. 
Wondrous  strong  are  the  spells  of  fiction  !  A  few 
years  pass  away,  and  history  becomes  romance, 
and  romance,  history.  To  the  peasantry  of  Spain, 
Don  Quixote  and  his  squire  are  historic  person 
ages  ;  and  woe  betide  the  luckless  wight  who 
unwarily  takes  the  name  of  Dulcinea  upon  his 
lips  within  a  league  of  El  Toboso !  The  traveller, 
too,  yields  himself  to  the  delusion ;  and  as  he 
traverses  the  arid  plains  of  La  Mancha,  pauses 
with  willing  credulity  to  trace  the  footsteps  of  the 
mad  Hidalgo,  with  his  "  velvet  breeches  on  a  holi 
day,  and  slippers  of  the  same."  The  high-road 
from  Aranjuez  to  Cordova  crosses  and  recrosses 
the  knight-errant's  path.  Between  Manzanares 
and  Valdepeiias  stands  the  inn  where  he  was 
dubbed  a  knight ;  to  the  northward,  the  spot  where 
he  encountered  the  windmills ;  to  the  westward, 
the  inn  where  he  made  the  balsam  of  Fierabras, 
the  scenes  of  his  adventures  with  the  fulling-mills, 
and  his  tournament  with  the  barber;  and  to  the 
southward,  the  Sierra  Morena,  where  he  did  pen 
ance,  like  the  knights  of  olden  time. 

For  my  own  part,  I  confess  that  there  are  seasons 
when  I  am  willing  to  be  the  dupe  of  my  imagina 
tion  ;  and  if  this  harmless  folly  but  lends  its  wings 
to  a  dull-paced  hour,  I  am  even  ready  to  believe  a 
fairy  tale. 


236  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

ON  the  fourth  day  of  our  journey  we  dined  at 
Manzanares,  in  an  old  and  sombre-looking  inn, 
which,  I  think,  some  centuries  back,  must  have 
been  the  dwelling  of  a  grandee.  A  wide  gateway 
admitted  us  into  the  inn-yard,  which  was  a  paved 
court,  in  the  centre  of  the  edifice,  surrounded  by  a 
colonnade,  and  open  to  the  sky  above.  Beneath 
this  colonnade  wo  were  shaved  by  the  village 
barber,  a  supple,  smooth-faced  Figaro,  with  a 
brazen  laver  and  a  gray  montera  cap.  There,  too, 
we  dined  in  the  open  air,  with  bread  as  white  as 
snow,  and  the  rich  red  wine  of  Valdepenas ;  and 
there,  in  the  listlessness  of  after-dinner,  smoked 
the  sleep-inviting  cigar,  while  in  the  court-yard 
before  us  the  muleteers  danced  a  fandango  with 
the  maids  of  the  inn,  to  such  music  as  three  blind 
musicians  could  draw  from  a  violin,  a  guitar,  and 
a  clarinet.  When  this  scene  was  over,  and  the 
blind  men  had  groped  their  way  out  of  the  yard,  I 
fell  into  a  delicious  slumber,  from  which  I  was  soon 
awakened  by  music  of  another  kind.  It  was  a 
clear,  youthful  voice,  singing  a  national  song  to 
the  sound  of  a  guitar.  I  opened  my  eyes,  and 
near  me  stood  a  tall,  graceful  figure,  leaning 
against  one  of  the  pillars  of  the  colonnade,  in  the 
attitude  of  a  serenader.  His  dress  was  that  of  a 
Spanish  student.  He  wore  a  black  gown  and 
cassock,  a  pair  of  shoes  made  of  an  ex-pair  of 
boots,  and  a  hat  in  the  shape  of  a  half-moon,  with 
the  handle  of  a  wooden  spoon  sticking  out  on  one 
•ide  like  a  cockade.  When  he  had  finished  his 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY.  237 

song,  we  invited  him  to  the  remnant  of  a  Vich 
sausage,  a  bottle  of  Valdepenas,  bread  at  his  own 
discretion,  and  a  pure  Havana  cigar.  The  stranger 
made  a  leg,  and  accepted  these  signs  of  good  com 
pany  with  the  easy  air  of  a  man  who  is  accustomed 
to  earn  his  livelihood  by  hook  or  by  crook ;  and  as 
the  wine  was  of  that  stark  and  generous  kind 
which  readily  "  ascends  one  into  the  brain,"  our 
erentleman  with  the  half-moon  hat  grew  garrulous 
and  full  of  anecdote,  and  soon  told  us  his  own 
story,  beginning  with  his  birth  and  parentage,  like 
the  people  in  Gil  Bias. 

"  I  am  the  son  of  a  barber,"  quoth  he ;  "  and 
first  saw  the  light  some  twenty  years  ago,  in  the 
great  city  of  Madrid.  At  a  very  early  age,  I  was 
taught  to  do  something  for  myself,  and  began  my 
career  of  gain  by  carrying  a  slow-match  in  the 
Prado,  for  the  gentlemen  to  light  their  cigars  with, 
and  catching  the  wax  that  dropped  from  the  friars' 
tapers  at  funerals  and  other  religious  processions. 

"  At  school  I  was  noisy  and  unruly ;  and  was 
finally  expelled  for  hooking  the  master's  son  with 
a  pair  of  ox-horns,  which  I  had  tied  to  my  head,  in 
order  to  personate  the  bull  in  a  mock  bull-fight. 
Soon  after  this  my  father  died,  and  I  went  to  live 
with  my  maternal  uncle,  a  curate  in  Fuencarral. 
He  was  a  man  of  learning,  and  resolved  that  I 
should  be  like  him.  He  set  his  heart  upon  making 
a  physician  of  me ;  and  to  this  end  taught  me  Latin 
and  Greek. 

"  In  due  time  I  was  sent  to  the  University  of 


238  TUE  PILGRIM'S  BRBVIARY. 

Alcalii.  Here  a  new  \vorld  opened  before  me. 
What  novelty, — what  variety, — what  excitement ! 
But,  alas  !  three  months  were  hardly  gone,  when 
news  came  that  my  worthy  uncle  had  passed  to  a 
better  world.  I  was  now  left  to  shift  for  myself. 
I  was  penniless,  and  lived  as  I  could,  not  as  1 
would.  I  became  a  sopista,  a  soup-eater, — a  knight 
of  the  wooden  spoon.  I  see  you  do  not  under 
stand  me.  In  other  words,  then,  I  became  one  of 
that  respectable  body  of  charity  scholars  who  go 
armed  with  their  wooden  spoons  to  eat  the  allow 
ance  of  eleemosynary  soup  which  is  daily  served 
out  to  them  at  the  gate  of  the  convents.  I  had  no 
longer  house  nor  home.  But  necessity  is  the 
mother  of  invention.  I  became  a  hanger-on  of 
those  who  were  more  fortunate  than  myself;  stud 
ied  in  other  people's  books,  slept  in  other  people's 
beds,  and  breakfasted  at  other  people's  expense. 
This  course  of  life  has  been  demoralizing,  but  it 
has  quickened  my  wits  to  a  wonderful  degree. 

"  Did  you  ever  read  the  life  of  the  Gran  Tacafio, 
by  Quevedo  ?  In  the  first  book  you  have  a  faith 
ful  picture  of  life  in  a  Spanish  university.  What 
was  true  in  his  day  is  true  in  ours.  O  Alcald  1 
Alcald  !  if  your  walls  had  tongues  as  well  as  ears, 
what  tales  could  they  repeat !  what  midnight  frol 
ics  !  what  madcap  revelries  !  what  scenes  of  merri 
ment  and  mischief!  How  merry  is  a  student's  life, 
and  yet  how  changeable  !  Alternate  feasting  and 
fasting, — alternate  Lent  and  Carnival, — alternate 
want  and  extravagance  !  Care  given  to  the  winds, 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY.  239 

— no  thought  beyond  the  passing  hour ;  yesterday, 
forgotten, — to-morrow,  a  word  in  an  unknown 
tongue ! 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  raising  the  dead  ?  not 
literally, — but  such  as  the  student  raised  when  he 
dug  for  the  soul  of  the  licentiate  Pedro  Garcias,  at 
tlr3  fountain  between  Pefiafiel  and  Salamanca, — 
nnney?  No?  Well,  it  is  done  after  this  wise. 
Gambling,  you  know,  is  our  great  national  vice ; 
and  then  gamblers  are  so  dishonest !  Now,  our 
game  is  to  cheat  the  cheater.  We  go  at  night  to 
some  noted  gaming-house, — five  or  six  of  us  in  a 
body.  We  stand  around  the  table,  watch  those 
that  are  at  play,  and  occasionally  put  in  a  trifle 
ourselves  to  avoid  suspicion.  At  length  the  favor 
able  moment  arrives.  Some  eager  player  veitures 
a  large  stake.  I  stand  behind  his  chair.  He  wins. 
As  quick  as  thought,  I  stretch  my  arm  o\er  his 
shoulder  and  seize  the  glittering  prize,  saying  very 
coolly,  *  I  have  won  at  last.'  My  gentleman  turns 
round  in  a  passion,  and  I  meet  his  indignant  glance 
with  a  look  of  surprise.  He  storms,  and  I  expostu 
late  ;  he  menaces, — I  heed  his  menaces  no  more 
than  the  buzzing  of  a  fly  that  has  burnt  his  wings 
in  my  lamp.  He  calls  the  whole  table  to  witness ; 
but  the  whole  table  is  busy,  each  with  his  own  gain 
or  loss,  and  there  stand  my  comrades,  all  loudly 
assorting  that  the  stake  was  mine.  What  can  he 
do  ?  there  was  a  mistake ;  he  swallows  the  affront 
as  best  he  may,  and  we  bear  away  the  booty.  Thi? 
we  call  raising  the  dead.  You  say  it  is  disgrace 


240  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

ful, — dishonest.  Our  maxim  is,  that  all  is  fair 
among  sharpers:  Baylar  al  son  que  se  /oca, — 
Dance  to  any  tune  that  is  fiddled.  Besides,  as  I 
said  before,  poverty  is  demoralizing.  One  loses 
the  nice  distinctions  of  right  and  wrong,  of  mewn 
and  luum. 

"  Thus  merrily  pass  the  hours  of  term-time. 
When  the  summer  vacations  come  round,  I  sling 
my  guitar  over  my  shoulder,  and  with  a  light  heart, 
and  a  lighter  pocket,  scour  the  country,  like  a 
strolling  piper  or  a  mendicant  friar.  Like  the  in 
dustrious  ant,  in  summer  I  provide  for  winter;  for 
in  vacation  we  have  tune  for  reflection,  and  make 
the  great  discovery,  that  there  is  a  portion  of  time 
called  the  future.  I  pick  up  a  trifle  here  and  a 
trifle  there,  in  all  the  towns  and  villages  through 
which  I  pass,  and  before  the  end  of  my  tour  I  find 
myself  quite  rich — for  the  son  of  a  barber.  This 
we  call  the  vida  tunantesca, — a  rag-tag-and-bobtail 
sort  of  life.  And  yet  the  vocation  is  as  honest  as 
that  of  a  begging  Franciscan.  Why  not  ? 

"  And  now,  gentlemen,  having  dined  at  your 
expense,  with  your  leave  I  will  put  this  loaf  of 
bread  and  the  remains  of  this  excellent  Vich 
sausage  into  my  pocket,  and,  thanking  you  for  your 
kind  hospitality,  bid  you  a  good  afternoon.  God 
be  with  you,  gentlemen  ! " 


IN  general,  the  aspect  of  La  Mancha  is  desolate 
and  sad.     Around  you  lies  a  parched   and  sim- 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY.  241 

burnt  plain,  which,  like  the  ocean,  has  no  limits 
but  the  sky ;  and  straight  before  you,  for  many  a 
•weary  league,  runs  the  dusty  and  level  road, 
without  the  shade  of  a  single  tree.  The  villages 
you  pass  through  are  poverty-stricken  and  half- 
depopulated  ;  and  the  squalid  inhabitants  wear  a 
look  of  misery  that  makes  the  heart  ache.  Every 
league  or  two,  the  ruins  of  a  post-house,  or  a  roof 
less  cottage  with  shattered  windows  and  blackened 
walls,  tells  a  sad  tale  of  the  last  war.  It  was  there 
that  a  little  band  of  peasantry  made  a  desperate 
stand  against  the  French,  and  perished  by  the 
bullet,  the  sword,  or  the  bayonet.  The  lapse  of 
many  years  has  not  changed  the  scene,  nor  re 
paired  the  battered  wall ;  and  at  almost  every  step 
the  traveller  may  pause  and  exclaim : — 

"Here  was  the  camp,  the  watch-flame,  and  the  host; 
Here  the  bold  peasant  stormed  the  dragon's  nest." 

From  Valdepenas  southward  the  country  wears 
a  more  lively  and  picturesque  aspect.  The  land 
scape  breaks  into  hill  and  valley,  covered  with 
vineyards  and  olive-fields ;  and  before  you  rise  the 
dark  ridges  of  the  Sierra  Morena,  lifting  their 
sullen  fronts  into  a  heaven  all  gladness  and  sun 
shine.  Ere  long  you  enter  the  wild  mountain-pass 
of  Despefia-Perros.  A  sudden  turn  in  the  road 
brings  you  to  a  stone  column,  surmounted  by  an 
iron  cross,  marking  the  boundary  line  between  La 
Mancha  and  Andalusia.  Upon  one  side  of  this 
column  is  carved  a  sorry-looking  face,  not  unlike 

VOL.  i.  16 


212  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

the  death's-heads  on  the  tombstones  of  a  country 
churchyard.  Over  it  is  written  this  inscription : — 
"  EL  VERDADERO  RETRATO  DE  LA  SAXTA  CARA 
DEL  DIGS  DE  XAEN," — The  true  portrait  of  the 
holy  countenance  of  the  God  of  Xaen  !  I  was  so 
much  struck  with  this  strange  superscription  that  I 
stopped  to  copy  it 

"  Do  you  really  believe  that  this  is  what  it  pre 
tends  to  be  ? "  said  I  to  a  muleteer,  who  was 
watching  my  movements. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  he,  shrugging  his  brawny 
shoulders ;  "  they  say  it  is." 

"  Who  says  it  is  ?  " 

"  The  priest, — the  Padre  Cura." 

"  I  supposed  so.  And  how  was  this  portrait 
taken  ?  " 

He  could  not  tell.  The  Padre  Cura  knew  all 
about  it. 

When  I  joined  my  companions,  who  were  a 
little  in  advance  of  me  with  the  carriage,  I  got  the 
mystery  explained.  The  Catholic  church  boasts 
of  three  portraits  of  our  Saviour,  miraculously  pre 
served  upon  the  folds  of  a  handkerchief,  with 
which  St.  Veronica  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  brow, 
on  the  day  of  the  crucifixion.  One  of  these  is  at 
Toledo,  another  in  the  kingdom  of  Xaen,  and  the 
third  at  Rome. 


THE  impression  which  this  monument  of  super 
stition  made  upon  my  mind  was  soon  effaced  by 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY.  243 

the  magnificent  scene  which  now  burst  upon  me. 
The  road  winds  up  the  mountain-side  with  gradual 
ascent ;  wild,  shapeless,  gigantic  crags  overhang  it 
upon  the  right,  and  upon  the  left  the  wary  foot 
starts  back  from  the  brink  of  a  fearful  chasm  hun 
dreds  of  feet  in  depth.  Its  sides  are  black  with 
ragged  pines,  and  rocks  that  have  toppled  down 
from  above ;  and  at  the  bottom,  scarcely  visible, 
wind  the  silvery  waters  of  a  little  stream,  a  tribu 
tary  of  the  Guadalquivir.  The  road  skirts  the 
ravine  for  miles, — now  climbing  the  barren  rock, 
and  now  sliding  gently  downward  into  shadowy 
hollows,  and  crossing  some  rustic  bridge  thrown 
over  a  wild  mountain-brook. 

At  length  the  scene  changed.  We  stood  upon 
the  southern  slope  of  the  Sierra,  and  looked  down 
upon  the  broad,  luxuriant  valleys  of  Andalusia, 
bathed  in  the  gorgeous  splendor  of  a  southern 
sunset.  The  landscape  had  already  assumed  the 
"  burnished  livery "  of  autumn ;  but  the  air  I 
breathed  was  the  soft  and  balmy  breath  of  spring, — 
the  eternal  spring  of  Andalusia. 

If  ever  you  should  be  fortunate  enough  to  visit 
this  part  of  Spain,  stop  for  the  night  at  the  village 
of  La  Carolina.  It  is,  indeed,  a  model  for  all 
villages, — with  its  broad  streets,  its  neat  white 
houses,  its  spacious  market-place  surrounded  with 
a  colonnade,  and  its  public  walk  ornamented  with 
fountains  and  set  out  with  luxuriant  trees.  I  doubt 
whether  all  Spain  can  show  a  village  more  beauti- 
*ul  than  this. 


244  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

THE  approach  to  Cordova  from  the  cast  is  en 
chanting.  The  sun  was  just  rising  as  we  crossed 
the  Guadalquivir  and  drew  near  to  the  city ;  and, 
alighting  from  the  carnage,  I  pursued  my  way  on 
foot,  the  better  to  enjoy  the  scene  and  the  pure 
morning  air.  The  dew  still  glistened  on  every 
leaf  and  spray  ;  for  the  burning  sun  had  not  yet 
climbed  the  tall  hedge-row  of  wild  fig-tree  and 
aloes  which  skirts  the  roadside.  The  highway 
wound  along  through  gardens,  orchards,  and  vine 
yards,  and  here  and  there  above  me  towered  the 
glorious  palm  in  all  its  leafy  magnificence.  On 
my  right,  a  swelling  mountain-ridge,  covered  with 
verdure  and  sprinkled  with  little  white  hermitages, 
looked  forth  towards  the  rising  sun ;  and  on  the 
left,  in  a  long,  graceful  curve,  swept  the  bright 
waters  of  the  Guadalquivir,  pursuing  their  silent 
journey  through  a  verdant  reach  of  soft  lowland 
landscape.  There,  amid  all  the  luxuriance  of  this 
sunny  clime,  arises  the  ancient  city  of  Cordova, 
though  stripped,  alas !  of  its  former  magnificence. 
All  that  reminds  you  of  the  past  is  the  crumbling 
wall  of  the  city,  and  a  Saracen  mosque,  now 
changed  to  a  Christian  cathedral.  The  stranger, 
who  is  familiar  with  the  history  of  the  Moorish 
dominion  in  Spain,  pauses  with  a  sigh,  and  asks 
himself,  Is  this  the  imperial  city  of  Alhakam  the 
Just,  and  Abdoulrahman  the  Magnificent  ? 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY.  245 

THIS,  then,  is  Seville,  that  "  pleasant  city, 
famous  for  oranges  and  women."  After  all  I 
have  heard  of  its  beauty,  I  am  disappointed  in 
finding  it  less  beautiful  than  my  imagination  had 
painted  it.  The  wise  saw, — 

"  Quien  no  ha  visto  Sevilla, 
No  ha  visto  maravilla," — 

He  who  has  not  seen  Seville,  has  seen  no  mar 
vel, — is  an  Andalusian  gasconade.  This,  however, 
is  the  judgment  of  a  traveller  weary  and  wayworn 
with  a  journey  of  twelve  successive  days  in  a  car 
riage  drawn  by  mules ;  and  I  am  well  aware  how 
much  our  opinions  of  men  and  things  are  colored 
by  these  trivial  ills.  A  sad  spirit  is  like  a  rainy 
day ;  its  mists  and  shadows  darken  the  brightest 
sky,  and  clothe  the  fairest  landscape  in  gloom. 

I  am,  likewise,  a  disappointed  man  in  another 
respect.  I  have  come  all  the  way  from  Madrid  to 
Seville  without  being  robbed  !  And  this,  too,  when 
I  journeyed  at  a  snail's  pace,  and  had  bought  a 
watch  large  enough  for  the  clock  of  a  village 
church,  for  the  express  purpose  of  having  it  vio 
lently  torn  from  me  by  a  fierce-whiskered  high 
wayman,  with  his  blunderbuss  and  his  "Boca 
abajo,  ladrones  !  "  If  I  print  this  in  a  book,  I  am 
undone.  What!  travel  in  Spain  and  not  be 
robbed  !  To  be  sure,  I  came  very  near  it  more 
than  once.  Almost  every  village  we  passed 
through  had  its  tale  to  tell  of  atrocities  committed 
in  the  neighbourhood.  In  one  place,  the  stage 
coach  had  been  stopped  and  plundered ;  in  an- 


246  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

other,  a  man  had  been  murdered  and  thrown  into 
the  river;  here  and  there  a  rude  wooden  cross 
and  a  shapeless  pile  of  stones  marked  the  spot 
where  some  unwary  traveller  had  met  his  fate; 
and  at  night,  seated  around  the  blazing  hearth  of 
the  inn-kitchen,  my  fellow-travellers  would  con 
verse  in  a  mysterious  undertone  of  the  dangers  wo 
were  to  pass  through  on  the  morrow.  But  the 
morrow  came  and  went,  and,  alas !  neither  sal- 
teador  nor  ratero  moved  a  finger.  At  one  place 
we  were  a  day  too  late;  at  another,  a  day  too 
early. 

I  am  now  at  the  Fonda  de  los  Americanos.  My 
chamber-door  opens  upon  a  gallery,  beneath  which 
is  a  little  court  paved  with  marble,  having  a  foun 
tain  in  the  centre.  As  I  write,  I  can  just  dis 
tinguish  the  tinkling  of  its  tiny  jet,  falling  into  the 
circular  basin  with  a  murmur  so  gentle  that  it 
scarcely  breaks  the  silence  of  the  night  At  day- 
dawn  I  start  for  Cadiz,  promising  myself  a  pleasant 
sail  down  the  Guadalquivir.  All  I  shall  be  able  to 
say  of  Seville  is  what  I  have  written  above, — that 
it  is  "a  pleasant  city,  famous  for  oranges  and 
women." 


I  AM  at  length  in  Cadiz.  I  came  across  the  bay 
yesterday  morning  in  an  open  boat  from  Santa 
Maria,  and  have  established  myself  in  very  pleas 
ant  rooms,  which  look  out  upon  the  Plaza  de  San 
Antonio,  the  public  square  of  the  city.  The  morn- 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY.  247 

ing  sun  awakes  me,  and  at  evening  the  sea-breeze 
comes  in  at  my  window.  At  night  the  square  ig 
lighted  by  lamps  suspended  from  the  trees,  and 
thronged  with  a  brilliant  crowd  of  the  young  and 

gay- 

Cadiz  is  beautiful  almost  beyond  imagination. 
The  cities  of  our  dreams  are  not  more  enchanting. 
It  lies  like  a  delicate  sea-shell  upon  the  brink  of 
the  ocean,  so  wondrous  fair  that  it  seems  not 
formed  for  man.  In  sooth,  the  Faphian  queen, 
born  of  the  feathery  sea-foam,  dwells  here.  It  is 
the  city  of  beauty  and  of  love. 

The  women  of  Cadiz  are  world-renowned  for 
their  loveliness.  Surely  earth  has  none  more 
dazzling  than  a  daughter  of  that  bright,  burning 
clime.  What  a  faultless  figure  !  what  a  dainty 
foot !  what  dignity !  what  matchless  grace  ! 

"  What  eyes, — what  lips, — what  every  thing  about  her ! 

How  like  a  swan  she  swims  her  pace,  and  bears 

Her  silver  breasts  1  " 

The  Gaditana  is  not  ignorant  of  her  charms. 
She  knows  full  well  the  necromancy  of  a  smile. 
You  see  it  in  the  flourish  of  her  fan, — a  magic 
wand,  whose  spell  is  powerful ;  you  see  it  in  her 
steady  gaze,  the  elastic  step, 

"  The  veil 

Thrown  back  a  moment  with  the  glancing  hand, 
While  the  o'erpowering  eye,  that  turns  you  pale, 
Flashes  into  the  heart." 

When  I  am  grown  old  and  gray,  and  sit  by  the 
fireside  wrapped  in  flannels,  if,  in  a  listless  moment, 


248  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

recalling  what  is  now  the  present,  but  will  then  bo 
tlie  distant  and  almost  forgotten  past,  I  turn  over 
the  leaves  of  this  journal  till  my  watery  eye  falls 
upon  the  page  I  have  just  written,  I  shall  smile  at 
the  enthusiasm  with  which  I  have  sketched  this 
portrait.  And  where  will  then  be  the  bright  forms 
that  now  glance  before  me,  like  the  heavenly  crea 
tions  of  a  dream?  All  gone,— all  gone!  Or,  if 
perchance  a  few  still  linger  upon  earth,  the  silver 
cord  will  be  loosed, — they  will  be  bowed  with  age 
and  sorrow,  saying  their  paternosters  with  a  tremu 
lous  voice. 

Old  age  is  a  Pharisee ;  for  he  makes  broad  his 
phylacteries,  and  wears  them  upon  his  brow,  in 
scribed  with  prayer,  but  in  the  "  crooked  auto 
graph  "  of  a  palsied  hand.  "  I  see  with  pain,"  says 
Madame  de  Pompadour,  "  that  there  is  nothing 
durable  upon  earth.  We  bring  into  the  world  a 
fair  face,  and  lo!  in  less  than  thirty  years  it  is 
covered  with  wrinkles ;  after  which  a  woman  is  no 
longer  good  for  any  thing." 

Were  I  to  translate  these  sombre  reflections  into 
choice  Castilian,  and  read  them  to  the  bright-eyed 
houri  who  is  now  leaning  over  the  balcony  oppo 
site,  she  would  laugh,  and  laughing  say,  "  Cuando 
el  demonio  es  viejo,  se  metefrayle." 


THE  devotion  paid  at  the  shrine  of  the  Virgin 
is  one  of  the  most  prominent  and   characteristio 


THE   PILGRIMS    BREVIARY.  249 

features  of  the  Catholic  religion.  In  Spain,  it  is 
one  of  its  most  attractive  features.  In  the  southern 
provinces,  in  Granada  and  in  Andalusia,  which  the 
inhabitants  call  "La  tierra  de  Maria  Santfeima" — 
the  land  of  the  most  holy  Mary, — this  adoration  is 
ardent  and  enthusiastic.  There  is  one  of  its  out 
ward  observances  which  struck  me  as  peculiarly 
beautiful  and  impressive.  I  refer  to  the  Ave  Maria, 
an  evening  service  of  the  Virgin.  Just  as  the 
evening  twilight  commences,  the  bell  tolls  to  prayer. 
In  a  moment,  throughout  the  crowded  city,  the 
hum  of  business  is  hushed,  the  thronged  streets  are 
still ;  the  gay  multitudes  that  crowd  the  public 
walks  stand  motionless;  the  angry  dispute  ceases; 
the  laugh  of  merriment  dies  away  ;  life  seems  for  a 
moment  to  be  arrested  in  its  career,  and  to  stand 
still.  The  multitude  uncover  their  heads,  and, 
with  the  sign  of  the  cross,  whisper  their  evening 
prayer  to  the  Virgin.  Then  the  bells  ring  a  mer 
rier  peal;  the  crowds  move  again  in  the  streets, 
and  the  rush  and  turmoil  of  business  recommence. 
I  have  always  listened  with  feelings  of  solemn 
pleasure  to  the  bell  that  sounded  forth  the  Ave 
Maria.  As  it  announced  the  close  of  day,  it 
geemed  also  to  call  the  soul  from  its  worldly  occu 
pations  to  repose  and  devotion.  There  is  some 
thing  beautiful  in  thus  measuring  the  march  of 
time.  The  hour,  too,  naturally  brings  the  heart 
into  unison  with  the  feelings  and  sentiments  of 
devotion.  The  close  of  the  day,  the  shadows  of 
evening,  the  calm  of  twilight,  inspire  a  feeling 


250  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

of  tranquillity ;  and  though  I  may  differ  from  the 
Catholic  in  regard  to  the  object  of  his  supplica 
tion,  yet  it  seems  to  me  a  beautiful  and  appropriate 
solemnity,  that,  at  the  close  of  each  daily  epoch  of 
life, — which,  if  it  have  not  been  fruitful  in  incidents 
to  ourselves,  has,  nevertheless,  been  so  to  many  of 
the  great  human  family, — the  voice  of  a  whole 
people,  and  of  the  whole  world,  should  go  up  to 
heaven  in  praise,  and  supplication,  and  thankful 
ness. 


"  THE  Moorish  king  rides  up  and  down 
Through  Granada's  royal  town ; 
From  Elvira's  gates  to  those 
Of  Bivarambla  on  he  goes. 
Woe  is  me,  Alhama!  " 

Thus  commences  one  of  the  fine  old  Spanish 
ballads,  commemorating  the  downfall  of  the  city  of 
Alhama,  where  we  have  stopped  to  rest  our  horses 
on  their  fatiguing  inarch  from  Velez-Miilaga  to 
Granada.  Alhama  was  one  of  the  last  strongholds 
of  the  Moslem  power  in  Spain.  Its  fall  opened 
the  way  for  the  Christian  army  across  the  Sierra 
Nevada,  and  spread  consternation  and  despair 
through  the  city  of  Granada.  The  description  in 
the  old  ballad  is  highly  graphic  and  beautiful ;  and 
its  beauty  is  well  preserved  in  the  spirited  English 
translation  by  Lord  Byron. 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY.  251 

As  we  crossed  the  Sierra  Nevada,  the  snowy 
mountains  that  look  down  upon  the  luxuriant  Vega 
of  Granada,  we  overtook  a  solitary  rider,  who  was 
singing  a  wild  national  song  to  cheer  the  loneliness 
of  his  journey.  He  was  an  athletic  man,  and  rode 
a  spirited  horse  of  the  Arab  breed.  A  black  bear 
skin  jacket  covered  his  broad  shoulders,  and  around 
his  waist  was  wound  the  crimson  faja,  so  univer 
sally  worn  by  the  Spanish  peasantry.  His  velvet 
breeches  reached  below  his  knee,  just  meeting  a 
pair  of  leather  gaiters  of  elegant  workmanship. 
A  gay  silken  handkerchief  was  tied  round  his  head, 
and  over  this  he  wore  the  little  round  Andalusian 
hat,  decked  out  with  a  profusion  of  tassels  of  silk 
and  bugles  of  silver.  The  steed  he  mounted  was 
dressed  no  less  gayly  than  his  rider.  There  was 
a  silver  star  upon  his  forehead,  and  a  bright-colored 
woollen  tassel  between  his  ears ;  a  blanket  striped 
with  blue  and  red  covered  the  saddle,  and  even 
the  Moorish  stirrups  were  ornamented  with  brass 
studs. 

This  personage  was  a  contrdbandista, — a  smuggler 
between  Granada  and  the  seaport  of  Velez-Malaga. 
The  song  he  sung  was  one  of  the  popular  ballads 
of  the  country. 

Worn  with  speed  is  my  good  steed, 
And  I  march  me  hurried,  worried ; 
Onward !  caballito  mio, 
With  the  white  star  in  thy  forehead ! 
Onward !  for  here  comes  the  Ronda, 
And  I  hear  their  rifles  crack ! 


262  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

Ay,  jaleo!  Ay,  ay,  jaleo! 

Ay,  jalco !  they  cross  our  track !  * 

The  air  to  which  these  words  are  sung  is  wild 
and  high  ;  and  the  prolonged  and  mournful  cadence 
gives  it  the  sound  of  a  funeral  wail,  or  a  cry  for 
help.  To  have  its  full  effect  upon  the  mind,  it 
should  be  heard  by  night,  in  some  wild  mountain- 
pass,  and  from  a  distance.  Then  the  harsh  tones 

*  I  here  transcribe  the  original  of  which  this  is  a  single 
Btanza.  Its  only  merit  is  simplicity,  and  a  certain  grace  which 
belongs  to  its  provincial  phraseology,  and  which  would  be  lost 
In  a  translation. 

"  Yo  quo  soy  contrabandista, 
Y  campo  por  mi  respcto, 
A  toclos  los  desafio, 
Porquo  A  naide  tcngo  mieo. 
jAy,  jaleo!  ;Muchachas,  jaleo! 
iQuien  me  compra  jilo  negro  ? 

u  Mi  caballo  csta  cansao, 
T  yo  me  marcho  corriendo. 
;  Amlii,  caballito  mio, 
Caballo  mio  careto! 
;  Anda,  que  viene  la  ronda, 
Y  se  mucTe  el  tirotec! 
;  Ay,  jaleo!  ;  Ay,  ay,  jaleo! 
i  Ay,  jaleo,  quc  nos  cortan! 
Sacame  de  aqueste  aprieto. 

"  Mi  caballo  ya  no  corre, 

Ya  mi  caballo  par6. 

Todo  para  en  este  mundo, 

Tambien  he  de  parar  yo. 

;  Ay,  jaleo !  ;  Muchachas,  jale«  ! 

iQuien  me  compra  jilo  negro™ 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY.  253 

come  softened  to  the  car,  and,  in  unison  with  the 
hour  and  the  scene,  produce  a  pleasing  melan 
choly. 

The  contrabandista  accompanied  us  to  Granada. 
The  sun  had  already  set  when  we  entered  the 
Vega, — those  luxuriant  meadows  which  stretch 
away  to  the  south  and  west  of  the  city,  league 
after  league  of  rich,  unbroken  verdure.  It  was 
Saturday  night ;  and,  as  the  gathering  twilight  fell 
around  us,  and  one  by  one  the  lamps  of  the  city 
twinkled  in  the  distance,  suddenly  kindling  here 
and  there,  as  the  stars  start  to  their  places  in  the 
evening  sky,  a  loud  peal  of  bells  rang  forth  its  glad 
welcome  to  the  day  of  rest,  over  the  meadows  to 
the  distant  hills,  "  swinging  slow,  with  solemn  roar." 


Is  this  reality  and  not  a  dream  ?  Am  I  indeed 
in  Granada?  Am  I  indeed  within  the  walls  of 
that  earthly  paradise  of  the  Moorish  kings  ?  How 
my  spirit  is  stirred  within  me  !  How  my  heart  is 
lifted  up  !  How  my  thoughts  are  rapt  away  in  the 
visions  of  other  days  ! 

Ave  Maria  purissima  !  It  is  midnight..  The  bell 
has  tolled  the  hour  from  the  watchtower  of  the 
Alhambra ;  and  the  silent  street  echoes  only  to  the 
watchman's  cry,  Ave  Maria  purissima  I  I  am  alone 
in  my  chamber, — sleepless, — spell-bound  by  the 
genius  of  the  place, — entranced  by  the  beauty  of 
the  star-lit  night.  As  I  gaze  from  my  window,  a 


254  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

sudden  radiance  brightens  in  the  east.  It  is  tlie 
moon,  rising  behind  the  Alhambra.  I  can  faintly 
discern  the  dusky  and  indistinct  outline  of  a  mas- 
Rive  tower,  standing  amid  the  uncertain  twilight, 
like  a  gigantic  shadow.  It  changes  with  the  rising 
moon,  as  a  palace  in  the  clouds,  and  other  towers 
and  battlements  arise, — every  moment  more  distinct, 
more  palpable,  till  now  they  stand  between  me  and 
the  sky,  with  a  sharp  outline,  distant,  and  yet  so  , 
near  that  I  seem  to  sit  within  their  shadow.  0  ' 
Majestic  spirit  of  the  night,  I  recognize  thee ! 
Thou  hast  conjured  up  this  glorious  vision  for  thy 
votary.  Thou  hast  baptized  me  with  thy  baptism. 
Thou  hast  nourished  my  soul  with  fervent  thoughts 
and  holy  aspirations,  and  ardent  longings  after 
the  beautiful  and  the  true.  Majestic  spirit  of 
the  past,  I  recognize  thee  !  Thou  hast  bid  the 
shadow  go  back  for  me  upon  the  dial-plate  of  time. 
Thou  hast  taught  me  to  read  in  thee  the  present 
and  the  future, — a  revelation  of  man's  destiny  on 
earth.  Thou  hast  tayght  me  to  see  in  thee  the 
principle  that  unfolds  itself  from  century  to  century 
in  the  progress  of  our  race, — the  germ  in  whose 
bosom  lie  unfolded  the  bud,  the  leaf,  the  tree.  Gen 
erations  perish,  like  the  leaves  of  the  forest,  pass 
ing  away  when  their  mission  is  completed ;  but  at 
each  succeeding  spring,  broader  and  higher  spreads 
the  human  mind  unto  its  perfect  stature,  unto  the 
fulfilment  of  its  destiny,  unto  the  perfection  of  its 
nature.  And  in  these  high  revelations,  thou  hast 
taught  me  more, — thou  hast  taught  me  to  feel 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BUEVIARY.  255 

that  I,  too,  weak,  humble,  and  unknown,  feeble 
of  purpose  and  irresolute  of  good,  have  some 
thing  to  accomplish  upon  earth, — like  the  falling 
leaf,  like  the  passing  wind,  like  the  drop  of  rain. 
O  glorious  thought !  that  lifts  me  above  the 
power  of  time  and  chance,  and  tells  me  that  I 
cannot  pass  away,  and  leave  no  mark  of  my 
existence.  I  may  not  know  the  purpose  of  my 
being, — the  end  for  which  an  all-wise  Providence 
created  me  as  I  am,  and  placed  me  where  I  am ; 
but  I  do  know — for  in  such  things  faith  is  knowl 
edge — that  my  being  has  a  purpose  in  the  omnis 
cience  of  my  Creator,  and  that  all  my  actions  tend 
to  the  completion,  to  the  full  accomplishment  of 
that  purpose.  Is  this  fatality  ?  No.  I  feel  that  I 
am  free,  though  an  infinite  and  invisible  power 
overrules  me.  Man  proposes,  and  God  disposes. 
This  is  one  of  the  many  mysteries  in  our  being 
which  human  reason  cannot  find  out  by  search 
ing. 

Yonder  towers,  that  stand  so  huge  and  massive 
in  the  midnight  air,  the  work  of  human  hands  that 
have  long  since  forgotten  their  cunning  in  the 
grave,  and  once  the  home  of  human  beings  im 
mortal  as  ourselves,  and  filled  like  us  with  hopes 
and  fears,  and  powers  of  good  and  ill, — are  lasting 
memorials  of  their  builders ;  inanimate  material 
forms,  yet  living  with  the  impress  of  a  creative  mind. 
These  are  landmarks  of  other  times.  Tims  from 
the  distant  past  the  history  of  the  human  race  is 
telegraphed  from  generation  to  generation,  through 


256  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

the  present  to  all  succeeding  ages.  These  aro 
manifestations  of  the  human  mind  at  a  remote 
period  of  its  history,  and  among  a  people  who  came 
from  another  clime, — the  children  of  the  desert. 
Their  mission  is  accomplished,  and  they  are  gone  ; 
yet  leaving  behind  them  a  thousand  records  of 
themselves  and  of  their  ministry,  not  as  yet  fully 
manifest,  but  "seen  through  a  glass  darkly,"  dimly 
shadowed  forth  in  the  language,  and  character,  and 
manners,  and  history  of  the  nation,  that  was  by 
turns  the  conquered  and  the  conquering.  The 
Goth  sat  at  the  Arab's  feet;  and  athwart  the  cloud 
and  storm  of  war,  streamed  the  light  of  Oriental 
learning  upon  the  Western  world, — 

"  As  when  the  autumnal  sun, 
Through  travelling  rain  and  mist, 
Shines  on  the  evening  hills." 


THIS  morning  I  visited  the  Alhambra;  an  en 
chanted  palace,  whose  exquisite  beauty  baffles  the 
power  of  language  to  describe.  Its  outlines  may 
be  drawn, — its  halls  and  galleries,  its  court  yards 
and  its  fountains,  numbered ;  but  what  skilful 
limner  shall  portray  in  words  its  curious  archi 
tecture,  the  grotesque  ornaments,  the  quaint  de 
vices,  the  rich  tracery  of  the  walls,  the  ceilings  in 
laid  with  pearl  and  tortoise-shell  ?  what  language 
paint  the  magic  hues  of  light  and  shade,  the  shim 
mer  of  the  sunbeam  as  it  falls  upon  the  marble 


THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY.  257 

pavement,  and  the  brilliant  panels  inlaid  with  many- 
colored  stones?  Vague  recollections  fill  rny  mind, — 
images  dazzling  but  undefined,  like  the  memory  of 
a  gorgeous  dream.  They  crowd  my  brain  con 
fusedly,  but  they  will  not  stay ;  they  change  and 
mingle,  like  the  tremulous  sunshine  on  the  wave, 
till  imagination  Itself  is  dazzled, — bewildered, — 
overpowered  ! 

What  most  arrests  the  stranger's  foot  within  the 
walls  of  the  Alhambra  is  the  refinement  of  luxury 
which  he  sees  at  every  step.  He  lingers  in  the  desert 
ed  bath, — he  pauses  to  gaze  upon  the  now  vacant 
saloon,  where  stretched  upon  his  gilded  couch,  the 
effeminate  monarch  of  the  East  was  wooed  to  sleep 
by  softly  breathing  music.  What  more  delightful 
than  this  secluded  garden,  green  with  the  leaf  of 
the  myrtle  and  the  orange,  and  freshened  with  the 
gush  of  fountains,  beside  whose  basin  the  nightin 
gale  still  woos  the  blushing  rose  ?  What  more 
fanciful,  more  exquisite,  more  like  a  creation  of 
Oriental  magic,  than  the  lofty  tower  of  the  Toca- 
dor, — its  airy  sculpture  resembling  the  fretwork  of 
wintry  frost,  and  its  windows  overlooking  the 
romantic  valley  of  the  Darro ;  and  the  city,  with 
its  gardens,  domes,  and  spires,  far,  far  below  ?  Cool 
'through  this  lattice  comes  the  summer  wind,  from 
the  icy  summits  of  the  Sierra  Nevada.  Softly  in 
yonder  fountain  falls  the  crystal  water,  dripping 
from  its  marble  vase  with  never-ceasing  sound.  On 
every  side  comes  up  the  fragrance  of  a  thousand 
flowers,  the  murmur  of  innumerable  leaves ;  and 

VOL.  i.  17 


£58  THE  PILGRIM'S  BREVIARY. 

overhead  is  a  sky  where  not  a  vapor  floats, — as 
soft,  and  blue,  and  radiant  as  the  eye  of  child 
hood! 

Such  is  the  Alhambra  of  Granada  ;  a  fortress, — 
a  palace, — an  eartlily  paradise, — a  ruin,  wonderful 
in  its  fallen  greatness  1 


ITALY. 


THE 

JOURNEY  INTO   ITALY. 

What  I  catch  is  at  present  only  sketch-ways,  as  it  were ;  but  I 
prepare  myself  betimes  for  the  Italian  journey. 

GOETHE'S  FAUST. 

Ox  the  afternoon  of  the  fifteenth  of  December, 
in  the  year  of  grace  one  thousand  eight  hundred 
and  twenty-seven,  I  left  Marseilles  for  Genoa,  tak 
ing  the  sea-shore  road  through  Toulon,  Draguignan, 
and  Nice.  This  journey  is  written  in  my  memory 
with  a  sunbeam.  We  were  a  company  whom 
chance  had  thrown  together, — different  in  ages, 
humors,  and  pursuits, — and  yet  so  merrily  the  days 
went  by,  in  sunshine,  wind,  or  rain,  that  methinks 
Borne  lucky  star  must  have  ruled  the  hour  that 
brought  us  five  so  auspiciously  together.  But 
where  is  now  that  merry  company  ?  One  sleeps 
in  his  youthful  grave;  two  sit  in  their  fatherland, 
and  "  coin  their  brain  for  their  daily  bread  " ;  and 
the  others, — where  are  they  ?  If  still  among  the 
living,  I  beg  them  to  remember  in  their  prayers  the 
humble  historian  of  their  journey  from  Marseilles 
to  Genoa. 

At  Toulon  we  took  a  private  carriage,  in  order 
to  pursue  our  journey  more  leisurely  and  more  at 
ease.  I  well  remember  the  strange,  outlandish 


262       THE  JOURNEY  INTO  ITALY. 

vehicle,  and  our  vetturino  Joseph,  with  his  blouse, 
his  short-stemmed  pipe,  his  limping  gait,  his  comical 
phiz,  and  the  lowland  dialect  his  mother  taught  him 
at  Avignon.  Every  scene,  every  incident  of  the 
journey  is  now  before  me  as  if  written  in  a  book. 
The  sunny  landscapes  of  the  Var, — the  peasant 
girls  with  their  broad-brimmed  hats  of  straw, — the 
inn  at  Draguignan,  with  its  painting  of  a  lady  on 
horseback,  underwritten  in  French  and  English, 
"  Unc  jcune  dame  a  la  promenade, — A  young  ladi 
taking  a  walk," — the  mouldering  arches  of  the  Ro 
man  aqueducts  at  Frejus,  standing  in  the  dim  twi 
light  of  morning  like  shadowy  apparitions  of  the 
past, — the  wooded  bridge  across  the  Var, — the 
glorious  amphitheatre  of  hills  that  half  encircle 
Nice, — the  midnight  scene  at  the  village  inn  of 
Monaco, — the  mountain-road  overhanging  the  sea 
at  a  dizzy  height,  and  its  long,  dark  passages  cut 
through  the  solid  rock, — the  tumbling  mountain- 
torrent, — and  a  fortress  perched  on  a  jutting  spur 
of  the  Alps ;  these,  and  a  thousand  varied  scenes 
and  landscapes  of  this  journey,  rise  before  me,  as 
if  still  visible  to  the  eye  of  sense,  and  not  to  that 
of  memory  only.  And  yet  I  will  not  venture  upon 
a  minute  description  of  them.  I  have  not  colors 
bright  enough  for  such  landscapes ;  and  besides, 
even  the  most  determined  lovers  of  the  picturesque 
grow  weary  of  long  descriptions ;  though,  as  tlio 
French  guide-book  says  of  these  scenes,  "  Tout  cela 
fait  sans  doute  un  spectacle  admirable  !  " 


THE   JOURNEY   INTO    ITALY.  2G3 

ON  the  tenth  day  of  our  journey,  we  reached 
'  Genoa,  the  city  of  palaces, — the  superb  city.  The 
writer  of  an  old  book,  called  "  Time's  Storehouse,  / 
thus  poetically  describes  its  situation :  "  This  cittie 
is  most  proudly  built  upon  the  seacoast  and  the 
downefall  of  the  Apennines,  at  the  foot  of  a  moun- 
taine ;  even  as  if  she  were  descended  downe  the 
mount,  and  come  to  repose  herselfe  uppon  a 
plaine." 

It  was  Christmas  eve, — a  glorious  night !  I  stood  » 
at  midnight  on  the  wide  terrace  of  our  hotel,  which 
overlooks  the  sea,  and,  gazing  on  the  tiny  and 
crisping  waves  that  broke  in  pearly  light  beneath 
the  moon,  sent  back  my  wandering  thoughts  far 
over  the  sea,  to  a  distant  home.  The  jangling 
music  of  church-bells  aroused  me  from  my  dream. 
It  was  the  sound  of  jubilee  at  the  approaching 
festival  of  the  Nativity,  and  summoned  alike  the 
pious  devotee,  the  curious  stranger,  and  the  gallant 
lover  to  the  church  of  the  Annunziata. 

I  descended  from  the  terrace,  and,  groping  my 
way  through  one  of  the  dark  and  narrow  lanes 
which  intersect  the  city  in  all  directions,  soon  found 
myself  in  the  Strada  Nuova.  The  long  line  of 
palaces  lay  half  in  shadow,  half  in  light,  stretching 
before  me  in  magical  perspective,  like  the  long, 
vapory  opening  of  a  cloud  in  the  summer  sky. 
Following  the  various  groups  that  were  passing  on 
ward  towards  the  public  square,  I  entered  the 
church,  where  midnight  mass  was  to  be  chanted. 
A  dazzling  blaze  of  light  from  the  high  altar  shone 


2G4  THE   JOURNEY    INTO    ITALY. 

upon  the  red  marble  columns  which  support  the 
roof,  and  fell  with  a  solemn  effect  upon  the  kneel 
ing  crowd  that  filled  the  body  of  the  church.  All 
beyond  was  in  darkness ;  and  from  that  darkness  at 
intervals  burst  forth  the  deep  voice  of  the  organ 
and  the  chanting  of  the  choir,  filling  the  soul  with 
solemnity  and  awe.  And  yet,  among  that  prostrate 
crowd,  how  many  had  been  drawn  thither  by  un 
worthy  motives, — motives  even  more  unworthy 
than  mere  idle  curiosity  !  How  many  sinful  pur 
poses  arose  in  souU  unpurified,  and  mocked  at  the 
bended  knee  !  IIow  many  a  heart  beat  wild  with 
earthly  passion,  while  the  unconscious  lip  repeated 
the  accustomed  prayer !  Immortal  spirit !  canst 
thou  so  heedlessly  resist  the  imploring  voice  that 
calls  thee  from  thine  errors  and  pollutions  ?  Is  not 
the  long  day  long  enough,  is  not  the  wide  world 
wide  enough,  has  not  society  frivolity  enough  for 
thee,  that  thou  shouldst  seek  out  this  midnight 
hour,  this  holy  place,  this  solemn  sacrifice,  to  add 
irreverence  to  thy  folly  ? 

In  the  shadow  of  a  column  stood  a  young  man 
wrapped  in  a  cloak,  earnestly  conversing  in  a  low 
whisper  with  a  female  figure,  so  veiled  as  to  hide 
her  face  from  the  eyes  of  all  but  her  companion. 
At  length  they  separated.  The  young  man  con 
tinued  leaning  against  the  column,  and  the  girl, 
gliding  silently  along  the  dimly  lighted  aisle,  mingled 
with  the  crowd,  and  threw  herself  upon  her  knees. 
Beware,  poor  girl,  thought  I,  lest  thy  gentle  nature 
prove  thy  undoing!  Perhaps,  alas!  thou  art  alivady 


THE   JOURNEY    INT  D    ITALY.  265 

undone  !  And  I  almost  heard  the  evil  spirit  whisper, 
as  in  the  Faust,  "  How  different  was  it  with  thee, 
Margaret,  when,  still  full  of  innocence,  thou  earnest 
to  the  altar  here, — out  of  the  well-worn  little  book 
lispedst  prayers,  half  child-sport,  half  God  in  the 
heart !  Margaret,  where  is  thy  head  ?  What  crime 
i  n  thy  heart ! " 

The  city  of  Genoa  is  magnificent  in  parts,  but 
not  as  a  whole.  The  houses  are  high,  and  the 
streets  in  general  so  narrow  that  in  many  of  them 
you  may  almost  step  across  from  side  to  side.  They 
are  built  to  receive  the  cool  sea-breeze,  and  shut 
out  the  burning  sun.  Only  three  of  them — if  my 
memory  serves  me — are  wide  enough  to  admit  the 
passage  of  carriages  ;  and  these  three  form  but  one 
continuous  street, — the  street  of  palaces.  They 
are  the  Strada  Nuova,  the  Strada  Novissima,  and 
the  Strada  Balbi,  which  connect  the  Piazza  Amo- 
rosa  with  the  Piazza  dell'  Annunziata.  These 
palaces,  the  Dona,  the  Durazzo,  the  Ducal  Palace, 
and  others  of  less  magnificence, — with  their  vast 
halls,  their  marble  staircases,  vestibules,  and  ter- 
races,  and  the  aspect  of  splendor  and  munificence 
they  wear, — have  given  this  commercial  city  the 
title  of  Genoa  the  Superb.  And,  as  if  to  ^humble 
her  pride,  some  envious  rival  among  the  Italian 
cities  has  launched  at  her  a  biting  sarcasm  in  the 
well-known  proverb,  "  Mare  senza  pcsce,  uomim 
senza  fede,  e  donna  senza  vcrgogna" — A  sea  with 
out  fish,  men  without  faith,  and  womei?  without 
ehame  ! 


266       THE  JOURNEY  INTO  ITALY. 

THE  road  from  Genoa  to  Lucca  strongly  re 
sembles  that  from  Nice  to  Genoa.  It  runs  along 
the  seaboard,  now  dipping  to  the  water's  edge,  and 
now  climbing  the  zigzag  mountain-pass,  with  top 
pling  crags,  and  yawning  chasms,  and  verdant 
terraces  of  vines  and  olive-trees.  Many  a  sublime 
and  many  a  picturesque  landscape  catches  the  travel 
ler's  eye,  now  almost  weary  with  gazing ;  and  still 
brightly  painted  upon  my  mind  lies  a  calm  evening 
scene  on  the  borders  of  the  Gulf  of  Spezia,  with  its 
broad  sheet  of  crystal  water, — the  blue-tinted  hills 
that  form  its  oval  basin, — the  crimson  sky  above, 
and  its  bright  reflection, — 

"  Where  it  lay 

Deep  bosomed  in  the  still  and  quiet  bay, 
The  sea  reflecting  all  that  glowed  above, 
Till  a  new  sky,  softer  but  not  so  gay, 
Arched  in  its  bosom,  trembled  like  a  dove." 


PISA,  the  melancholy  city,  with  its  Leaning 
Tower,  its  Campo  Santo,  its  bronze-gated  cathedral, 
and  its  gloomy  palaces, — Florence  the  Fair,  with 
its  magnificent  Duomo,  its  gallery  of  ancient  art, 
its  gardens,  its  gay  society,  and  its  delightful  envi 
rons, — Fiesole,  Camaldoli,  Yallombrosa,  and  the 
luxuriant  Val  d'Arno ;— these  have  been  so  often 
and  so  beautifully  described  by  others,  that  I  ueed 
not  repeat  the  twice-told  tale. 


THE   JOURNEY   INTO    ITALY.  267 

AT  Florence  I  took  lodgings  in  a  house  which 
looks  upon  the  Piazza  Novella.  In  front  of  my 
windows  was  the  venerable  church  of  Santa  Maria 
Novella,  in  whose  gloomy  aisles  Boccaccio  has 
placed  the  opening  scene  of  his  Dccamerone. 
There,  when  the  plague  was  raging  in  the  city, 
one  Tuesday  morning,  after  mass,  the  "  seven  ^v^x-0 
ladies,  young  and  fair,"  held  counsel  together, 
and  resolved  to  leave  the  infected  city,  and  flee  to  ' 
their  rural  villas  in  the  environs,  where  they  might 
"  hear  the  birds  sing,  and  see  the  green  hills, 
and  the  plains,  and  the  fields  covered  with  grain 
and  undulating  like  the  sea,  and  trees  of  species 
manifold." 

In  the  Florentine  museum  is  a  representation  in 
wax  of  some  of  the  appalling  scenes  of  the  plague 
which  desolated  this  city  about  the  middle  of  the 
fourteenth  century,  and  which  Boccaccio  has  de 
scribed  with  such  simplicity  and  power  in  the  intro- 
luction  of  his  Decamerone.  It  is  the  work  of  a 
Sicilian  artist,  by  the  name  of  Zumbo.  He  must 
have  been  a  man  of  the  most  gloomy  and  saturnine 
imagination,  and  more  akin  to  the  worm  than  most 
of  us,  thus  to  have  revelled  night  and  day  in  the 
hideous  mysteries  of  death,  corruption,  and  the 
charnel-house.  It  is  strange  how  this  representation 
haunts  one.  It  is  like  a  dream  of  the  sepulchre, 
with  its  loathsome  corses,  with  "  the  blackening,  the 
swelling,  the  bursting  of  the  trunk, — the  worm,  the 
rat,  and  the  tarantula  at  work."  You  breathe 
more  freely  as  you  step  out  into  the  open  air  again ; 


268  1TIE   JOURNEY   INTO    ITALY. 

and  when  the  bright  sunshine  and  the  crowded, 
busy  streets  next  meet  your  eye,  you  are  ready  to 
ask,  Is  this  indeed  a  representation  of  reality  ?  Can 
this  pure  air  have  been  laden  with  pestilence? 
"Can  this  gay  city  have  ever  been  a  city  of  the 
plague  ? 

The  work  of  the  Sicilian  artist  is  admirable  as  a 
piece  of  art ;  the  description  of  the  Florentine 
prose-poet  equally  admirable  as  a  piece  of  elo 
quence.  V*1'  How  many  vast  palaces,"  he  exclaims, 
"how  many  beautiful  houses,  how  many  noble 
dwellings,  aforetime  filled  with  lords  and  ladies  and 
trains  of  servants,  were  now  untcnanted  even  by 
the  lowest  menial !  How  many  memorable  fami 
lies,  how  many  ample  heritages,  how  many  re 
nowned  possessions,  were  left  without  an  heir! 
How  many  valiant  men,  how  many  beautiful 
•women,  how  many  gentle  youths  breakfasted  in 
the  morning  with  their  relatives,  companions,  and 
friends,  and,  when  the  evening  came,  supped  with 
their  ancestors  in  the  other  world  I "  1 


I  MET  with  an  odd  character  at  Florence, — a 
complete  humorist  He  was  an  Englishman  of 
some  forty  years  of  age,  with  a  round,  good- 
humored  countenance,  and  a  nose  that  wore  tho 
livery  of  good  company.  He  was  making  the 
grand  tour  through  France  and  Italy,  and  home 
again  by  the  way  of  the  Tyrol  and  the  Rhine.  Ho 


THE  JOURNEY  INTO  ITALY.       2C9 

travelled  post,  with  a  double-barrelled  gun,  two 
pair  of  pistols,  and  a  violin  without  a  bow.  He  had 
been  in  Rome  without  seeing  St.  Peter's, — he  did 
not  care  about  it ;  he  had  seen  St.  Paul's  in  Lon 
don.  He  had  been  in  Naples  without  visiting 
Pompeii,  because  "  they  told  him  it  was  hardly 
worth  seeing, — nothing  but  a  parcel  of  dark  streets 
and  old  walls.  The  principal  object  he  seemed  to 
have  in  view  was  to  complete  the  grand  tour. 

I  afterward  met  with  his  counterpart  in  a  coun 
tryman  of  my  own,  who  made  it  a  point  to  see 
every  thing  which  was  mentioned  in  the  guide 
books;  and  boasted  how  much  he  could  accom 
plish  in  a  day.  He  would  despatch  a  city  in  an 
incredibly  short  space  of  time.  A  Roman  aque 
duct,  a  Gothic  cathedral,  two  or  three  modern 
churches,  and  an  ancient  ruin  or  so,  were  only 
a  breakfast  for  him.  Nothing  came  amiss ;  not  a 
stone  was  left  unturned.  A  city  was  like  a  Chi 
nese  picture  to  him, — it  had  no  perspective.  Every 
object  seemed  of  equal  magnitude  and  importance 
He  saw  them  all ;  they  were  all  wonderful. 

Life  is  short,  and  art  is  long ;  yet  spare  me  from 
thus  travelling  with  the  speed  of  thought,  and  trot 
ting,  from  daylight  until  dark,  at  the  heels  of  a 
cicerone,  with  an  umbrella  in  one  hand,  and  a 
guide-book  and  plan  of  the  city  in  the  other. 


I  COPIED  the  following  singular  inscription  from 
a  tombstone  in  the  Protestant  cemetery  at  Leg- 


270  THE   JOURNEY   INTO   ITALY. 

horn.  It  is  the  epitaph  of  a  lady,  written  by 
herself,  and  engraven  upon  her  tomb  at  her  own 
request. 

"  Under  this  stone  lies  the  victim  of  sorrow. 

Fly,  wandering  stranger,  from  her  mouldering  dust, 

Lest  the  rude  wind,  conveying  a  particle  thereof  unto 

thee, 

Should  communicate  that  venom  melancholy 
That   has   destroyed  the   strongest   frame  and  liveliest 

spirit. 

With  joy  of  heart  has  she  resigned  her  breath, 
A  living  martyr  to  sensibility!  " 

How  inferior  in  true  pathos  is  this  inscription  to 
one  in  the  cemetery  of  Bologna  ; — 

"  Lucrezia  Picini 
Implora  eterna  pace." 

Lucretia  Picini  implores  eternal  peace ! 

From  Florence  to  Rome  I  travelled  with  a 
vetturino,  by  the  way  of  Siena.  We  were  six 
days  upon  the  road,  and,  like  Peter  Rugg  in  the 
story-book,  were  followed  constantly  by  clouds  and 
rain.  At  times,  the  sun,  not  all-foi-getful  of  the 
world,  peeped  from  beneath  his  cowl  of  mist,  and 
kissed  the  swarthy  face  of  his  beloved  land ;  and 
then,  like  an  anchorite,  withdrew  again  from  earth, 
and  gave  himself  to  heaven.  Day  after  day  the 
mist  and  the  rain  were  my  fellow-travellers ;  and 
as  I  sat  wrapped  in  the  thick  folds  of  my  Spanish 
cloak,  and  looked  out  upon  the  misty  landscape  and 


THE  JOURNEY  INTO  ITALY.       271 

the  leaden  sky,  I  was  continually  saying  to  myself, 
"  Can  this  be  Italy  ?  "  and  smiling  at  the  untravelled 
credulity  of  those  who,  amid  the  storms  of  a  north 
ern  winter,  give  way  to  the  illusions  of  fancy,  and 
dream  of  Italy  as  a  sunny  land,  where  no  wintry 
tempest  beats,  and  where,  even  in  January,  the 
pale  invalid  may  go  about  without  his  umbrella,  or 
his  India-rubber  walk-in-the-waters. 

Notwithstanding  all  this,  with  the  help  of  a  good 
constitution  and  a  thick  pair  of  boots,  I  contrived 
to  see  all  that  was  to  be  seen  upon  the  road.  I 
walked  down  the  long  hillside  at  San  Lorenzo,  and 
along  the  border  of  the  Lake  of  Bolsena,  which, 
veiled  in  the  driving  mist,  stretched  like  an  inland 
sea  beyond  my  ken  ;  and  through  the  sacred  forest 
of  oak,  held  in  superstitious  reverence  by  the  peas 
ant,  and  inviolate  from  his  axe.  I  passed  a  night 
at  Montefiascone,  renowned  for  a  delicate  Muscat 
wine,  which  bears  the  name  of  Est,  and  made  a 
midnight  pilgrimage  to  the  tomb  of  the  Bishop 
John  Defoucris,  who  died  a  martyr  to  his  love  of 
this  wine  of  Montefiascone. 


"  Propter  nimium  Est,  Est,  Est, 
Domiuus  meus  mortuus  est." 

A.  marble  slab  in  the  pavement,  worn  by  the  foot- 
jteps  of  pilgrims  like  myself,  covers  the  dominie's 
ashes.  There  is  a  rude  figure  carved  upon  it,  at 
whose  feet  I  traced  out  the  cabalistic  words,  "  Est, 
Est,  Est "  The  remainder  of  the  inscription  was 


272  THE   JOURNEY    INTO    ITALY. 

illegible   by   the   flickering   light  of   the   sexton's 
lantern. 

At  Baccano  I  first  caught  sight  of  the  dome  of 
Saint  Peter's.  We  had  entered  the  desolate  Cam- 
pagna;  -we  passed  the  Tomb  of  Nero, — we  ap 
proached  the  Eternal  City  ;  but  no  sound  of  active 
life,  no  thronging  crowds,  no  hum  of  busy  men, 
announced  that  we  were  near  the  gates  of  Rome. 
All  was  silence,  solitude,  and  desolation. 


ROME   IN  MIDSUMMER. 


She  "who  tamed  the  world  seemed  to  tame  herself  at  last,  and, 
falling  under  her  own  weight,  grew  to  be  a  prey  to  Time,  who 
with  his  iron  teeth  consumes  all  bodies  at  last,  making  all  things, 
both  animate  and  inanimate,  which  have  their  being  under  that 
changeling,  the  moon,  to  be  subject  unto  corruption  and  desola 
tion.  HOWELL'S  SIGNORIE  OP  VENICE. 


THE  masks  and  mummeries  of  Carnival  are 
over ;  the  imposing  ceremonies  of  Holy  Week  have 
become  a  tale  of  the  times  of  old ;  the  illumination 
of  St.  Peter's  and  the  Girandola  are  no  longer  the 
theme  of  gentle  and  simple ;  and  finally,  the  bar 
barians  of  the  North  have  retreated  from  the  gates 
of  Rome,  and  left  the  Eternal  City  silent  and  de 
serted.  The  cicerone  stands  at  the  corner  of  the 
street  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets;  the  artist  has 
shut  himself  up  in  his  studio  to  muse  upon  anti 
quity;  and  the  idle  facchino  lounges  in  the  market 
place,  and  plays  at  mora  by  the  fountain.  Mid 
summer  has  come ;  and  you  may  now  hire  a  palace 
for  what,  a  few  weeks  ago,  would  hardly  have  paid 
your  night's  lodging  in  its  garret. 

I  am  still  lingering  in  Rome, — a  student,  not  an 
artist, — and  have  taken  lodgings  in  the  Piazza 
Savona,  the  very  heart  of  the  city,  and  one  of  the 

VOL.  i.  18 


274  ROME   IN   MIDSUMMER. 

largest  and  most  magnificent  squares  of  modern 
Rome.  It  occupies  the  site  of  the  ancient  amphi 
theatre  of  Alexander  Severus ;  and  the  churches, 
palaces,  and  shops  that  now  surround  it,  are  bull* 
upon  the  old  foundations  of  the  amphitheatre.  A* 
each  extremity  of  the  square  stands  a  fountain 
the  one  with  a  simple  jet  of  crystal  water,  the  othe\ 
with  a  triton  holding  a  dolphin  by  the  tail.  In  the 
:entre  rises  a  nobler  work  of  art ;  a  fountain  with 
a  marble  basin  more  than  two  hundred  feet  in  cir 
cumference.  From  the  midst  uprises  a  huge  rock, 
pierced  with  grottos,  wherein  sit  a  rampant  sea 
horse,  and  a  lion  couchant.  On  the  sides  of  the 
rock  are  four  colossal  statues,  representing  the  four 
principal  rivers  of  the  world ;  and  from  its  summit, 
forty  feet  from  the  basin  below,  shoots  up  an 
obelisk  of  red  granite,  covered  with  hieroglyphics, 
and  fifty  feet  in  height,— a  relic  of  the  amphitheatre 
of  Caracalla. 

In  this  quarter  of  the  city  I  have  domiciliated 
myself,  in  a  family  of  whose  many  kindnesses  I 
'shall  always  retain  the  most  lively  and  grateful 
remembrance.  My  mornings  are  spent  in  visiting 
the  wonders  of  Rome,  in  studying  the  miracles  of 
ancient  and  modern  art,  or  in  reading  at  the  public 
libraries.  We  breakfast  at  noon,  and  dine  at  eight 
in  the  evening.  After  dinner  comes  the  conver 
sazione,  enlivened  with  music,  and  the  meeting  of 
traveller,  artists,  and  literary  men  from  every 
quarter  of  the  globe.  At  midnight,  when  the 
crowd  is  gone,  I  retire  to  my  chamber,  and,  poring 


ROME    IN    MIDSUMMER.  275 

over  the  gloomy  pages  of  Dante,  or  "  Bandello's 
laughing^Jtale,"  protract  my  nightly  vigil  till  the 
morning  star  is  in  the  sky. 

Our  windows  look  out  upon  the  square,  which 
circumstance  is  a  source  of  infinite  enjoyment  to 
me.  Directly  in  front,  with  its  fantastic  belfries 
and  swelling  dome,  rises  the  church  of  St.  Agnes ; 
and  sitting  by  the  open  window,  I  note  the  busy 
scene  below,  enjoy  the  cool  air  of  morning  and 
evening,  and  even  feel  the  freshness  of  the  foun 
tain,  as  its  waters  leap  in  mimic  cascades  down  the 
sides  of  the  rock. 


THE  Piazza  Navona  is  the  chief  market-place 
of  Rome  ;  and  on  market-days  is  filled  with  a  noisy 
crowd  of  the  Roman  populace,  and  the  peasantry 
from  the  neighbouring  villages  of  Albano  and 
Frascati.  At  such  times  the  square  presents  an 
animated  and  curious  scene.  The  gayly  decked 
stalls, — the  piles  of  fruits  and  vegetables, — the 
pyramids  of  flowers, — the  various  costumes  of  the 
peasantry, — the  constant  movement  of  the  vast, 
fluctuating  crowd,  and  the  deafening  clamor  of 
their  discordant  voices,  that  rise  louder  than  the 
roar  of  the  loud  ocean, — all  this  is  better  than  a 
play  to  me,  and  gives  me  amusement  when  naught 
else  has  power  to  amuse. 

Every  Saturday  afternoon  in  the  sultry  month 
of  August,  this  spacious  square  is  converted  into  a 
lake,  by  stopping  the  conduit-pipes  which  carry  off 


276  ROME    IX    MIDSUMMER. 

the  water  of  the  fountains.  Vehicles  of  every 
description,  axle-deep,  drive  to  and  fro  across  the 
mimic  lake ;  a  dense  crowd  gathers  around  its 
margin,  and  a  thousand  tricks  excite  the  loud 
laughter  of  the  idle  populace.  Here  is  a  fellow 
groping  with  a  stick  after  his  seafaring  hat ;  there 
another  splashing  in  the  water  in  pursuit  of  a  mis 
chievous  spaniel,  who  is  swimming  away  with  his 
shoe ;  while  from  a  neighbouring  balcony  a  noisy 
burst  of  military  music  fills  the  air,  and  gives  fresh 
animation  to  the  scene  of  mirth.  This  is  one  of 
the  popular  festivals  of  midsummer  in  Rome,  and 
the  merriest  of  them  all.  It  is  a  kind  of  carnival 
unmasked ;  and  many  a  popular  bard,  many  a 
poeta  di  dozzina,  invokes  this  day  the  plebeian 
Muse  of  the  market-place  to  sing  in  high-sounding 
rhyme,  "11  Lago  di  Piazza  Navona." 

I  have  before  me  one  of  these  sublime  effusions. 
It  describes  the  square, — the  crowd, — the  rattling 
carriages, — the  lake, — the  fountain,  raised  by  "  the 
superhuman  genius  of  Bernini," — the  lion, — the 
sea-horse,  and  the  triton  grasping  the  dolphin's  tail. 
"  Half  the  grand  square,"  thus  sings  the,  poet, 
"where  Rome  with  food  is  satiate,  was  changed 
into  a  lake,  around  whose  margin  stood  the  Roman 
people,  pleased  with  soft  idleness  and  merry  holi 
day,  like  birds  upon  the  margin  of  a  limpid  brook. 
Up  and  down  drove  car  and  chariot ;  and  the 
women  trembled  for  fear  of  the  deep  water ;  though 
merry  were  the  young,  and  well  I  ween,  had  they 
been  borne  away  to  unknown  shores  by  the  bull 


ROME    IN   MIDSUMMER.  277 

that  bore  away  Europa,  they  would  neither  have 
wept  nor  screamed  ! " 


Ox  the  eastern  slope  of  the  Janiculum,  now 
called,  from  its  yellow  sands,  Montorio,  or  the 
Golden  Mountain,  stands  the  fountain  of  Acqua 
Paola,  the  largest  and  most  abundant  of  the  Roman 
fountains.  It  is  a  small  Ionic  temple,  with  six 
columns  of  reddish  granite  in  front,  a  spacious  hall 
and  chambers  within,  and  a  garden  with  a  terrace 
in  the  rear.  Beneath  the  pavement,  a  torrent  of 
water  from  the  ancient  aqueducts  of  Trajan,  and 
from  the  lakes  of  Bracciano  and  Martignano,  leaps 
forth  in  three  beautiful  cascades,  and  from  the 
overflowing  basin  rushes  down  the  hillside  to  turn 
the  busy  wheels  of  a  dozen  mills. 

The  key  of  this  little  fairy  palace  is  in  our  hands, 
and  as  often  as  once  a  week  we  pass  the  day  there, 
amid  the  odor  of  its  flowers,  the  rushing  sound  of 
its  waters,  and  the  enchantments  of  poetry  and 
music.  How  pleasantly  the  sultry  hours  steal  by  ! 
Cool  comes  the  summer  wind  from  the  Tiber's 
mouth  at  Ostia.  Above  us  is  a  sky  without  a 
cloud ;  beneath  us  the  magnificent  panorama  of 
Rome  and  the  Campagna,  bounded  by  the  Abruzzi 
and  the  sea.  Glorious  scene  !  one  glance  at  thee 
would  move  the  dullest  soul, — one  glance  can  melt 
the  painter  and  the  poet  into  tears  ! 

In  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  the  fountain 
are  many  objects  worthy  of  the  stranger's  notice. 


278  ROME    IN    MIDSUMMER. 

A  bowshot  down  the  hillside  towards  the  city 
stands  the  convent  of  San  Pietro  in  Montorio ;  and 
in  the  cloister  of  this  convent  is  a  small,  round 
Doric  temple,  built  upon  the  spot  -which  an  ancient 
tradition  points  out  as  the  scene  of  St.  Peter's  mar 
tyrdom.  In  the  opposite  direction  the  road  leads 
you  over  the  shoulder  of  the  hill,  and  out  through 
the  city-gate  to  gardens  and  villas  beyond.  Pass 
ing  beneath  a  lofty  arch  of  Trajan's  aqueduct,  an 
ornamented  gateway  on  the  left  admits  you  to  the 
Villa  Pamfili-Doria,  built  on  the  western  declivity 
of  the  hill.  This  is  tin-  laip-st  and  nm-t  ina^niii- 
cent  of  the  numerous  villas  that  crowd  the  immedi 
ate  environs  of  Rome.  Its  spacious  terraces,  its 
marble  statues,  its  woodlands  and  green  alleys,  its 
lake  and  waterfalls  and  fountains,  give  it  an  air  of 
courtly  splendor  and  of  rural  beauty,  which  real 
izes  the  beau  ideal  of  a  suburban  villa. 

This  is  our  favorite  resort,  when  we  have  passed 
the  day  at  the  fountain,  and  the  afternoon  shadows 
begin  to  fall.  There  we  sit  on  the  broad  marble 
steps  of  the  terrace,  gaze  upon  the  varied  land 
scape  stretching  to  the  misty  sea,  or  ramble  beneath 
the  leafy  dome  of  the  woodland  and  along  the 
margin  of  the  lake, 

"And  drop  a  pebble  to  see  it  sink 
Down  in  those  depths  so  calm  and  cool." 

O,  did  we  but  know  when  we  are  happy  !  Could 
the  restless,  feverish,  ambitious  heart  be  still,  but 
for  a  moment  still,  and  yield  itself,  without  one 


ROME    IN   MIDSUMMER.  279 

farther-aspiring  throb,  to  its  enjoyment, — then  were 
I  happy, — yes,  thrice  happy !  But  no ;  this  flutter 
ing,  struggling,  and  imprisoned  spirit  beats  the 
bars  of  its  golden  cage, — disdains  the  silken  fetter ; 
it  will  not  close  its  eye  and  fold  its  wings ;  as  if 
time  were  not  swift  enough,  its  swifter  thoughts 
outstrip  his  rapid  flight,  and  onward,  onward  do 
they  wing  their  way  to  the  distant  mountains,  to 
the  fleeting  clouds  of  the  future ;  and  yet  I  know, 
that  ere  long,  weary,  and  wayworn,  and  disap 
pointed,  they  shall  return  to  nestle  in  the  bosom 
of  the  past ! 

This  day,  also,  I  have  passed  at  Acqua  Paola. 
From  the  garden  terrace  I  watched  the  setting  sun, 
as,  wrapt  in  golden  vapor,  he  passed  to  other 
climes.  A  friend  from  my  native  land  was  with 
me ;  and  as  we  spake  of  home,  a  liquid  star  stood 
trembling  like  a  tear  upon  the  closing  eyelid  of  the 
day.  Which  of  us  sketched  these  lines  with  a 
pencil  upon  the  cover  of  Julia's  Corinna  ? 

Bright  star!  whose  soft,  familiar  ray, 

In  colder  climes  and  gloomier  skies, 
I've  watched  so  oft  when  closing  day 

Had  tinged  the  west  with  crimson  dyes; 
Perhaps  to-night  some  friend  I  love, 

Beyond  the  deep,  the  distr.nt  sea, 
Will  gaze  upon  thy  path  abcve, 

And  give  one  lingering  thought  to  me. 


TORQUATI  TASSO  OSSA  HIC  JACENT, — Here 
lie  the  bones  of  Torquato  Tasso, — is  the  simple 


280  HOME    IX    MIDSUMMER. 

inscription  upon  tbe  poet's  tomb,  in  the  church 
of  St  Onofrio.  Many  a  pilgrimage  is  made  to 
this  grave.  Many  a  bard  from  distant  lands 
comes  to  visit  the  spot, — and,  as  he  paces  the 
secluded  cloisters  of  the  convent  where  the  poet 
died,  and  where  his  ashes  rest,  muses  on  the 
sad  vicissitudes  of  his  life,  and  breathes  a  prayer 
for  the  peace  of  his  soul.  He  sleeps  midway 
between  his  cradle  at  Sorrento  and  his  dungeon 
at  Ferrara. 

The  monastery  of  St.  Onofrio  stands  on  the 
Janiculum,  overlooking  the  Tiber  and  the  city 
of  Rome ;  and  in  the  distance  rise  the  towers 
of  the  Roman  Capitol,  where,  after  long  years 
of  sickness,  sorrow,  and  imprisonment,  the  laurel 
crown  was  prepared  for  the  great  epic  poet 
of  Italy.  The  chamber  in  which  Tasso  died  is 
still  shown  to  the  curious  traveller ;  and  the  tree 
in  the  garden,  under  whose  shade  he  loved  to 
sit.  The  feelings  of  the  dying  man,  as  he  reposed 
in  this  retirement,  are  not  the  vague  conjectures 
of  poetic  revery.  He  has  himself  recorded  them 
in  a  letter  which  he  wrote  to  his  friend  Antonio 
Constantini,  a  few  days  only  before  his  dissolution. 
These  are  his  melancholy  words  : — 
^_^What  will  my  friend  Antonio  say,  when  he 
hears  the  death  of  Tasso  ?  Ere  long,  I  think, 
the  news  will  reach  him :  for  I  feel  that  the  end 
of  my  life  is  near;  being  able  to  find  no  remedy 
for  this  wearisome  indisposition  which  is  super- 
added  to  my  customary  infirmities,  and  by  which, 


ROME    IN   MIDSUMMER.  281 

as  by  a  rapid  torrent,  I  see  myself  swept  away, 
without  a  hand  to  save.  It  is  no  longer  time  to 
epeak  of  my  unyielding  destiny,  not  to  say  the 
ingratitude  of  the  world,  which  has  longed  even 
for  the  victory  of  driving  me  a  beggar  to  my 
grave;  while  I  thought  that  the  glory  which,  in 
spite  of  those  who  will  it  not,  this  age  shall  receive 
from  my  writings  was  not  to  leave  me  thus  without 
reward.  I  have  come  to  this  monastery  of  St. 
Onofrio,  not  only  because  the  air  is  commended 
by  physicians  as  more  salubrious  than  in  any 
other  part  of  Rome,  but  that  I  may,  as  it  were, 
commence,  in  this  high  place,  and  in  the  conver 
sation  of  these  devout  fathers,  my  conversation  in 
heaven.  Pray  God  for  me  ;  and  be  assured  that 
as  I  have  loved  and  honored  you  in  this  present 
life,  so  in  that  other  and  more  real  life  will  I  do 
for  you  all  that  belongs  to  chanty  unfeigned  and 
true.  And  to  the.,  divine  mercy  I  commend  both 
you  and  myself." 


THE  modern  Romans  are  a  very  devout  people. 
The  Princess  Doria  washes  the  pilgrims'  feet  in 
Holy  Week;  every  evening,  foul  or  fair,  the 
whole  year  round,  there  is  a  rosary  sung  before 
an  image  of  the  Virgin,  within  a  stone's  throw 
of  my  window ;  and  the  young  ladies  write  letters 
to  St.  Louis  Gonzaga,  who  in  all  paintings  and 
sculpture  is  represented  as  young  and  angelically 


282  ROME   IN    MIDSUMMER. 

beautiful.  I  saw  a  large  pile  of  these  letters  a 
few  weeks  ago  in  Gonzaga's  chapel,  at  the  church 
of  St.  Ignatius.  They  were  lying  at  the  foot 
of  the  altar,  prettily  written  on  smooth  paper, 
and  tied  with  silken  ribbons  of  various  colors. 
Leaning  over  the  marble  balustrade,  I  read  the 
following  superscription  upon  one  of  them:-— 
"  AlC  Angelica  Giovane  S.  Luigi  Gonzaga,  Para- 
diso" — To  the  angelic  youth  St.  Louis  Gonzaga, 
Paradise.  A  soldier,  with  a  musket,  kept  guard 
over  this  treasure ;  and  I  had  the  audacity  to  ask 
him  at  what  hour  the  mail  went  out;  for  which 
heretical  impertinence  he  cocked  his  mustache  at 
me  with  the  most  savage  look  imaginable,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "  Get  thee  gone  " : — 

"  Andate, 
Niente  pigliatc, 
E  mai  ritornate." 

The  modern  Romans  are  likewise  strongly  given 
to  amusements  of  every  description.  Panem  et 
circenses,  says  the  Latin  satirist,  when  chiding  tho 
degraded  propensities  of  his  countrymen  ;  Panem 
el  circenseSj — they  are  content  with  bread  and  the 
sports  of  the  circus.  The  same  may  be  said  at 
the  present  day.  Even  in  this  hot  weather,  when 
the  shops  are  shut  at  noon,  and  the  fat  priests 
waddle  about  the  streets  with  fans  in  their  hands, 
the  people  crowd  to  the  Mausoleum  of  Augustus, 
to  be  choked  with  the  smoke  of  fireworks,  and  see 
deformed  and  humpback  dwarfs  tumbled  into  tho 


ROME   IN   MIDSUMMER.  283 

dirt    by  the  masked    horns    of   young  bullocks. 
..  *    What  a  refined  amusement  for  the  inhabitants 
of  "  pompous  and  holy  Rome  1 " 


THK  Sirocco  prevails  to-day, — a  hot  wind  from 
the  burning  sands  of  Africa,  that  bathes  its  wings 
in  the  sea,  and  comes  laden  with  fogs  and  vapors 
to  the  shores  of  Italy.  It  is  oppressive  and  dis 
piriting,  and  quite  unmans  one,  like  the  dogdays 
of  the  North.  There  is  a  scrap  of  an  old  English 
song  running  in  my  mind,  in  which  the  poet  calls 
it  a  cool  wind ;  though  ten  to  one  I  misquote. 

"  When  the  cool  Sirocco  blows, 
And  daws  and  pies  and  rooks  and  crows 
Sit  and  curse  the  wintry  snows, 
Then  give  me  ale!  " 

I  should  think  that  stark  English  beer  might 
have  a  potent  charm  against  the  powers  of  the 
foul  fiend  that  rides  this  steaming,  reeking  wind. 
A  flask  of  Montefiascone,  or  a  bottle  of  Lacrima 
Christi  does  very  well. 


*  BEGGARS  all,— beggars  all!  The  Papal  city 
is  full  of  them ;  and  they  hold  you  by  the  button 
through  the  whole  calendar  of  saints.  You  cannot 
choose  but  hear.  I  met  an  old  woman  yesterday, 
who  pierced  my  ear  with  this  alluring  petition : — 


284  ROME    IN    MIDSTJMMER. 

"  Ah,  signore  !  Qualche  plccola  cosa,  per  carita ! 
Vi  dirb  la  buona  ventura  !  C*  e  una  bella  signo- 
tt/?rt,  che  vi  ama  molto !  Per  il  Sacro  Sacramento! 
Per  la  Madonna  !  " 

Which,  being  interpreted,  is,  "  Ah,  sir,  a  trifle 
for  charity's  sake  !  I  will  tell  your  fortune  foi 
you  !  There  is  a  beautiful  young  lady  who  loves 
you  well!  For  the  Holy  Sacrament,— for  the 
Madonna's  sake  ! " 

AVho  could  resist  such  an  appeal  ? 

I  made  a  laughable  mistake  this  morning  in 
giving  alms.  A  man  stood  on  the  shady  side 
of  the  street  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and  as  I 
passed  he  gave  me  a  piteous  look,  though  he  said 
nothing.  He  had  such  a  wobegone  face,  and 
such  a  threadbare  coat,  that  I  at  once  took  him 
for  one  of  those  mendicants  who  bear  the  title 
of  poveri  vergognosi, — bashful  beggars;  persons 
whom  pinching  want  compels  to  receive  the 
stranger's  charity,  though  pride  restrains  them 
from  asking  it.  Moved  with  compassion  I  threw 
into  the  hat  the  little  I  had  to  give  ;  when,  instead 
of  thanking  me  with  a  blessing,  my  man  of  the 
threadbare  coat  showered  upon  me  the  most 
sonorous  maledictions  of  his  native  tongue,  and, 
emptying  his  greasy  hat  upon  the  pavement,  drew 
it  down  over  his  ears  with  both  hands,  and  stalked 
away  with  all  the  dignity  of  a  Roman  senator  in 
the  best  days  of  the  republic, — to  the  infinite 
amusement  of  a  green-grocer,  who  stood  at  his 
shop-door  bursting  with  laughter.  No  time  was 


HOME    IN    MIDSUMMER.  285 

given  me  for  an  apology  ;  but  I  resolved  to  be  for 
the  future  more  discriminating  in  my  charities, 
and  not  to  take  for  a  beggar  every  poor  gentle 
man  who  chose  to  stand  in  the  shade  -with  his  hat 
in  his  hand  on  a  hot  summer's  day 


THERE  is  an  old  fellow  who  hawks  pious  legends 
and  the  lives  of  saints  through  the  streets  of 
Rome,  with  a  sharp,  cracked  voice,  that  knows 
no  pause  nor  division  in  the  sentences  it  utters.  I 
just  heard  him  cry  at  a  breath  : — 

"  La  Vita  di  San  Giuseppe  quel  Jidel  servitor 
di  Dio  santo  e  maraviglioso  mezzo  bajocco" — 
The  Life  of  St.  Joseph  that  faithful  servant  of  God 
holy  and  wonderful  ha'penny  ! 

This  is  the  wray  with  some  people ;  every  thing 
helter-skelter, — heads  and  tails, — prices  current 
and  the  lives  of  saints  ! 


IT  has  been  a  rainy  day, — a  day  of  gloom. 
The  church-bells  never  rang  in  my  ears  with  so 
melancholy  a  sound ;  and  this  afternoon  I  saw  a 
mournful  scene,  which  still  haunts  my  imagination. 
*  It  was  the  funeral  of  a  monk.  I  was  drawn  to 
the  window  by  the  solemn  chant,  as  the  procession 
came  from  a  neighbouring  street  and  crossed  the 
square.  First  came  a  long  train  of  priests,  clad 
in  black,  and  bearing  in  their  hands  large  waxen 


286  ROME   IN   MIDSUMMER. 

tapers,  which  flared  in  every  gust-  of  wind,  and 
were  now  and  then  extinguished  by  the  rain. 
The  bier  followed,  borne  on  the  shoulders  of 
four  bare-footed  Carmelites  ;  and  upon  it,  ghastly 
and  grim,  lay  the  body  of  the  dead  monk,  clad  in 
his  long  gray  kirtle,  with  the  twisted  cord  about 
his  waist.  Not  even  a  shroud  was  thrown  over 
him.  His  head  and  feet  were  bare,  and  his  hands 
were  placed  upon  his  bosom,  palm  to  palm,  in  the 
attitude  of  prayer.  His  face  was  emaciated,  and 
of  a  livid  hue ;  his  eyes  unclosed ;  and  at  every 
movement  of  the  bier,  his  head  nodded  to  and  fro, 
with  an  unearthly  and  hideous  aspect  Behind 
walked  the  monastic  brotherhood,  a  long  and 
melancholy  procession,  with  their  cowls  thrown 
back,  and  their  eyes  cast  upon  the  ground ;  and 
last  of  all  came  a  man  with  a  rough,  unpainted 
coffin  upon  his  shoulders,  closing  the  funeral  train. 


MANY  of  the  priests,  monks,  monsignori,  and 
cardinals  of  Rome  have  a  bad  reputation,  even 
after  deducting  a  tithe  or  so  from  the  tales  of 
gossip.  To  some  of  them  may  be  applied  the 
rhyming  Latin  distich,  written  for  the  monks  of 
old:  — 

"  0  Monachi, 

Vestri  stomach! 

Stint  amphora  Bacchi; 

Vos  estis, 

Deus  cst  tcstis, 

Turpissima  pestis." 


ROME    IN    MIDSUMMER.  287 

The  graphic  description  which  Thomson  gives 
iu  his  "Castle  of  Indolence"  would  readily  find 
an  impersonation  among  the  Roman  priesthood : — 

"  Full  oft  by  holy  feet  our  ground  -was  trod, — 
Of  clerks  good  plenty  here  you  mote  espy; — 
A  little,  round,  fat,  oily  man  of  God 
Was  one  I  chiefly  marked  among  the  fry ; 
He  had  a  roguish  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
Which  shone  all  glittering  with  ungodly  dew, 
When  a  tight  damsel  chanced  to  trippen  by ; 
But  when  observed,  would  shrink  into  his  mew, 
And  straight  would  recollect  his  piety  anew." 


YONDER  across  the  square  goes  a  Minenti  of 
Trastevere ;  a  fellow  who  boasts  the  blood  of  the 
old  Romans  in  his  veins.  He  is  a  plebeian  exqui 
site  of  the  western  bank  of  the  Tiber,  with  a 
swarthy  face  and  the  step  of  an  emperor.  He 
wears  a  slouched  hat,  and  blue  velvet  jacket  and 
breeches,  and  has  enormous  silver  buckles  in  his 
shoes.  As  he  marches  along,  he  sings  a  ditty  in 
his  own  vulgar  dialect : — 

"  Uno,  due,  e  tre, 

E  lo  Papa  non  e  Re." 

Now  he  stops  to  talk  with  a  woman  with  a  pan  of 
coals  in  her  hand.  What  violent  gestures !  what 
expressive  attitudes !  Head,  hands,  and  feet  are 
all  in  motion, — not  a  muscle  is  still  I  It  must  be 


258  ROME   IX   MIDSUMMER. 

some  interesting  subject  that  excites  him  so  much, 
and  gives  such  energy  to  his  gestures  and  his  lan 
guage.  No ;  he  only  wants  to  light  his  pipe ! 


JT  is  now  past  midnight  The  moon  is  full  and 
bright,  and  the  shadow?  lie  so  dark  and  massive  in 
the  street  that  they  seem  a  part  of  the  walls  that 
cast  them.  I  have  just  returned  from  the  Coliseum, 
I  whose  ruins  are  so  marvellously  beautiful  by  moon 
light.  No  stranger  at  Rome  omits  this  midnight 
visit ;  for  though  there  is  something  unpleasant  in 
having  one's  admiration  forestalled,  and  being  as 
it  were  romantic  aforethought,  yet  the  chann  is  so 
powerful,  the  scene  so  surpassingly  beautiful  and 
sublime, — the  hour,  the  silence,  and  the  colossal 
ruin  have  such  a  mastery  over  the  soul, — that  you 
are  disarmed  when  most  upon  your  guard,  and 
betrayed  into  an  enthusiasm  which  perhaps  you 
had  silently  resolved  you  would  not  feel. 

On  my  way  to  the  Coliseum,  I  crossed  the  Capi- 
toliue  hill,  and  descended  into  the  Roman  Forum 
by  the  broad  staircase  that  leads  to  the  triumphal 
arch  of  Septimius  Severus.  Close  upon  my  right 
hand  stood  the  three  remaining  columns  of  the 
temple  of  the  Thunderer,  and  the  beautiful  Ionic 
portico  of  the  temple  of  Concord, — their  base  in 
shadow,  and  the  bright  moonbeam  striking  aslant 
upon  the  broken  entablature  above.  Before  me 
rose  the  Phocian  Column, — an  isolated  shaft,  like 


ROME    IN    MIDSUMMER.  289 

a  thin  vapor  hanging  in  the  air  scarce  visible ;  and 
far  to  the  left,  the  ruins  of  the  temple  of  Antonio 
and  Faustina,  and  the  three  colossal  arches  of 
the  temple  of  Peace, — dim,  shadowy,  indistinct, — 
seemed  to  melt  away  and  mingle  with  the  sky.  I 
crossed  the  Forum  to  the  foot  of  the  Palatine,  and, 
ascending  the  Via  Sacra,  passed  beneath  the  Arch 
of  Titus.  From  this  point,  I  saw  below  me  the 
gigantic  outline  of  the  Coliseum,  like  a  cloud 
resting  upon  the  earth.  As  I  descended  the  hill 
side,  it  grew  more  broad  and  high, — more  definite 
in  its  form,  and  yet  more  grand  in  its  dimensions, 
— till,  from  the  vale  in  which  it  stands  encompassed 
by  three  of  the  Seven  Hills  of  Rome, — the  Pala 
tine,  the  Coelian,  and  the  Esquiline, — the  majestic 
ruin  in  all  its  solitary  grandeur  "  swelled  vast  to 
heaven." 

A  single  sentinel  was  pacing  to  and  fro  beneath  , 
the  arched  gateway  which  leads  to  the  interior, 
and  his  measured  footsteps  were  the  only  sound 
that  broke   the   breathless   silence   of  the   ni^ht. 

O 

What  a  contrast  with  the  scene  which  that  same 
!  midnight  hour  presented,  when,  in  Domitian's 
time,  the  eager  populace  began  to  gather  at  the 
gates,  impatient  for  the  morning  sports !  Nor  was 
the  contrast  within  less  striking.  Silence,  and  the 
quiet  moonbeams,  and  the  broad,  deep  shadows 
of  the  ruined  wall !  Where  were  the  senators  of 
Home,  her  matrons,  and  her  virgins  ?  where  the  * 
ferocious  populace  that  rent  the  air  with  shouts, 
when,  in  the  hundred  holidays  that  marked  the 
VOL.  t  19 


290  ROME   IX   MIDSUMMER. 

dedication  of  this  imperial  slaughter-house,  five 
thousand  wild  beasts  from  the  Libyan  descrts^and 
the  forests  of  Anatolia;  made  the  arena  sick  with 
blood  ?  Where  were  the  Christian  martyrs,  that 
died  with  prayers  upon  their  lips,  amid  the  jeers 
and  imprecations  of  their  fellow-men  ?  where  the 
barbarian  gladiator?,  brought  forth  to  the  festival 
of  blood,  and  "  butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holi 
day"?  The  awful  silence  answered,  "They  are 
mine  ! "  The  dust  beneath  me  answered,  "  They 

are  mine  !'^ 

.^ 

I. crossed  to  the  opposite  extremity  of  the  amphi 
theatre.  A  lamp  was  burning  in  the  little  chapel, 
which  has  been  formed  from  wh&t  was  once  a  den 
for  the  wild  beasts  of  the  Roman  festivals.  Upon 
the  steps  sat  the  old  beadsman,  the  only  tenant  of 
the  Coliseum,  who  guides  the  stranger  by  night 
through  the  long  galleries  of  this  vast  pile  of  ruins. 
I  followed  him  up  a  narrow  wooden  staircase,  and 
entered  one  of  the  long  and  majestic  corridors, 
which  in  ancient  times  ran  entirely  round  the 
amphitheatre.  Huge  columns  of  solid  mason-work, 
that  seem  the  labor  of  Titans,  support  the  flattened 
arches  above;  and  though  the  iron  clamps  are 
gone,  which  once  fastened  the  hewn  stones  together, 
yet  the  columns  stand  majestic  and  unbroken, 
amid  the  ruin  around  them,  and  seem  to  defy  "  the 
iron  tooth  of  time."  Through  the  arches  at  the 
right,  I  could  faintly  discern  the  ruins  of  the  baths 
of  Titus  on  the  Esquiline ;  and  from  the  left,  through 
every  chink  and  cranny  of  the  wall,  poured  in  the 


EOME   IN   MIDSUMMER.  291 

brilliant  light  of  the  full  moon,  casting  gigantic 
shadows  around  me,  and  diffusing  a  soft,  silvery 
twilight  through  the  long  arcades.  At  length  I 
came  to  an  open  space,  where  the  arches  above 
had  crumbled  away,  leaving  the  pavement  an 
unroofed  terrace  high  in  air.  From  this  point,  I 
could  see  the  whole  interior  of  the  amphitheatre 
spread  out  beneath  me,  half  in  shadow,  half  in 
light,  with  such  a  soft  and  indefinite  outline  that 
it  seemed  less  an  earthly  reality  than  a  reflection 
in  the  bosom  of  a  lake.  The  figures  of  several 
persons  below  were  just  perceptible,  mingling 
grotesquely  with  their  fore-shortened  shadows. 
The  sound  of  their  voices  reached  me  in  a  whis 
per  ;  and  the  cross  that  stands  in  the  centre  of  the 
arena  looked  like  a  dagger  thrust  into  the  sand. 
I  did  not  conjure  up  the  past,  for  the  past  had 
already  become  identified  with  the  present.  It 
was  before  me  in  one  of  its  visible  and  most 
majestic  forms.  The  arbitrary  distinctions  of 
time,  years,  ages,  centuries  were  annihilated.  I 
was  a  citizen  of  Rome  !  This  was  the  amphitheatre 
of  Flavius  Vespasian ! 

Mighty  is  the  spirit  of  the  past,  amid  the  ruinj 
of  the  Eternal  City  1 


THE 

VILLAGE    OF    LA   RICCIA. 

Egrcssum  magnSL  me  excepit  Aricia  RomSL, 
Ilospitio  modico. 

HOEAC*. 

I  PASSED  the  month  of  September  at  the  village 
of  La  Riccia,  which  stands  upon  the  western 
declivity  of  the  Albanian  hills,  looking  towards 
Rome.  Its  situation  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
which  Italy  can  boast.  Like  a  mural  crown,  it 
encircles  the  brow  of  a  romantic  hill ;  woodlands 
of  the  most  luxuriant  foliage  whisper  around  it; 
above  rise  the  rugged  summits  of  the  Abruzzi,  and 
beneath  lies  the  level  floor  of  the  Campagna, 
blotted  with  ruined  tombs,  and  marked  with  broken 
but  magnificent  aqueducts  that  point  the  way  to 
Rome.  The  whole  region  is  classic  ground.  The 
Appian  Way  leads  you  from  the  gate  of  Rome  to 
the  gate  of  La  Riccia.  On  one  hand  you  have 
the  Alban  Lake,  on  the  other  the  Lake  of  Nemi ; 
and  the  sylvan  retreats  around  were  once  the 
dwellings  of  Ilippolytus  and  the  nymph  Egeria. 

The  town  itself,  however,  is  mean  and  dirty. 
The  only  inhabitable  part  is  near  the  northern 
gate,  where  the  two  streets  of  the  village  meet. 


THE    VILLAGE   OF   LA   KICCIA.  293 

There,  face  to  face,  upon  a  square  terrace,  paved 
with  large,  flat  stones,  stand  the  Chigi  palace  and 
the  village  church  with  a  dome  and  portico.  There, 
too,  stands  the  village  inn,  with  its  beds  of  cool, 
elastic  maize-husks,  its  little  dormitories,  six  feet 
square,  and  its  spacious  saloon,  upon  whose  walls 
the  melancholy  story  of  Hippolytus  is  told  in  gor 
geous  frescos.  And  there,  too,  at  the  union  of  the 
streets,  just  peeping  through  the  gateway,  rises  the 
wedge-shaped  Casa  Antonini,  within  whose  dusty 
chambers  I  passed  the  month  of  my  villeggiatura, 
in  company  with  two  much-esteemed  friends  from 
the  Old  Dominion, — a  fair  daughter  of  that  gener 
ous  clime,  and  her  husband,  an  artist,  an  enthusiast, 
and  a  man  of  "  infinite  jest." 

My  daily  occupations  in  this  delightful  spot  were 
such  as  an  idle  man  usually  whiles  away  his  time 
withal  in  such  a  rural  residence.  I  read  Italian 
poetry, — strolled  in  the  Chigi  park, — rambled  about 
the  wooded  environs  of  the  village, — took  an  airing 
on  a  jackass, — threw  stones  into  the  Alban  Lake, 
— and,  being  seized  at  intervals  with  the  artist- 
mania,  that  came  upon  me  like  an  intermittent 
fever,  sketched — or  thought  I  did — the  trunk  of  a 
hollow  tree,  or  the  spire  of  a  distant  church,  or  a 
fountain  in  the  shade. 

At  such  seasons,  the  mind  is  "  tickled  with  a 
straw,"  and  magnifies  each  trivial  circumstance 
into  an  event  of  some  importance.  I  recollect  one 
Corning,  as  I  sat  at  breakfast  in  the  village  coffee 
house,  a  large  and  beautiful  spaniel  came  into  the 


294  THE    VILLAGE   OF   LA   RICCIA 

room,  and  placing  his  head  upon  my  knee  looked 
up  into  iny  face  with  a  most  piteous  look,  poor  dog ! 
as  much  as  to  say  that  he  had  not  breakfasted.  I 
gave  him  a  morsel  of  bread,  which  he  swallowed 
without  so  much  as  moving  his  long  silken  ears; 
and  keeping  his  soft,  beautiful  eyes  still  fixed  upon 
mine,  he  thumped  upon  the  floor  with  his  bushy 
tail,  as  if  knocking  for  the  waiter.  He  was  a  very 
beautiful  animal,  and  so  gentle  and  affectionate  in 
his  manner,  that  I  asked  the  waiter  who  his  owner 
was. 

"  He  has  none  now,"  said  the  boy. 

"What!"  said  I,  "so  fine  a  dog  without  a 
master  ?  " 

"  Ah,  Sir,  he  used  to  belong  to  Gasparoni,  the 
famous  robber  of  the  Abruzzi  mountains,  who  mur 
dered  so  many  people,  and  was  caught  at  last  and 
sent  to  the  galleys  for  life.  There's  his  portrait  on 
the  wall." 

It  hung  directly  in  front  of  me ;  a  coarse  print, 
representing  the  dark,  stern  countenance  of  that 
sinful  man,  a  face  that  wore  an  expression  of  sav 
age  ferocity  and  coarse  sensuality.  I  had  heard  his 
story  told  in  the  village ;  the  accustomed  talc  of 
outrage,  violence,  and  murder.  And  is  it  possible, 
thought  I,  that  this  man  of  blood  could  have  chosen 
BO  kind  and  gentle  a  companion  ?  What  a  rebuke 
must  he  have  met  in  those  large,  meek  eyes,  when 
he  patted  his  favorite  on  the  head,  and  dappled  his 
long  ears  with  blood  !  Heaven  seems  in  mercy  to 
have  ordained  that  none — no,  not  even  the  most 


THE    VILLAGE   OF   LA   IUCCIA.  295 

depraved — should  be  left  entirely  to  his  evil  nature, 
without  one  patient  monitor, — a  wife, — a  daughter, 
• — a  fawning,  meek-eyed  dog,  whose  silent,  suppli 
cating  look  may  rebuke  the  man  of  sin  !  If  this 
mute,  playful  creature,  that  licks  the  stranger's 
hand,  were  gifted  with  the  power  of  articulate 
speech,  how  many  a  tale  of  midnight  storm,  and 
mountain-pass,  and  lonely  glen,  would — but  these 
reflections  are  commonplace  ! 

On  another  occasion,  I  saw  an  overladen  ass  fall 
on  the  steep  and  slippery  pavement  of  the  street 
He  made  violent  but  useless  efforts  to  get  upon  his 
feet  again ;  and  his  brutal  driver — more  brutal  than 
the  suffering  beast  of  burden — beat  him  unmerci 
fully  with  his  heavy  whip.  Barbarian!  is  it  not 
enough  that  you  have  laid  upon  your  uncomplain 
ing  servant  a  burden  greater  than  he  can  bear  ? 
Must  you  scourge  this  unresisting  slave,  because 
his  strength  has  failed  him  in  your  hard  service  ? 
Docs  not  that  imploring  look  disarm  you  ?  Does 
not — and  here  was  another  theme  for  commonplace 
reflection  ! 

Again.  A  little  band  of  pilgrims,  clad  in  white, 
with  staves,  and  scallop-shells,  and  sandal  shoon, 
have  just  passed  through  the  village  gate,  wending 
their  toilsome  way  to  the  holy  shrine  of  Loretto. 
They  wind  along  the  brow  of  the  hill  with  slow  anil 
solemn  pace, — -just  as  they  ought  to  do,  to  agree 
with  my  notion  of  a  pilgrimage,  drawn  from  novels. 
And  now  they  disappear  behind  the  hill;  and 
hark  !  they  are  siiiging  a  mournful  hymn,  like 


206  THE    VILLAGE   OF   LA   IlICCIA. 

Christian  and  Hopeful  on  their  way  to  the  Dele> 
table  Mountains.  How  strange  it  seems  to  me, 
that  I  should  ever  behold  a  scene  like  this !  a  pil 
grimage  to  Loretto !  Here  was  another  outline  for 
the  imagination  to  (ill  up. 

But  my  chief  delight  was  ill  sauntering  along  the 
many  woodland  walks,  which  diverge  in  every 
direction  from  the  gates  of  La  lliccia.  One  of 
these  plunges  down  the  steep  declivity  of  the  hill, 
and,  threading  its  way  through  a  most  romantic 
valley,  leads  to  the  shapeless  tomb  of  the  Horatii 
and  the  pleasant  village  of  Albano.  Another  con 
ducts  you  over  swelling  uplands  and  through  wooded 
hollows  to  Genzano  and  the  sequestered  Lake  of 
Nemi,  which  lies  in  its  deep  crater,  like  the  waters 
of  a  well,  "  all  coiled  into  itself  and  round,  as 
sleeps  the  snake."  A  third,  and  the  most  beautiful 
of  all,  runs  in  an  undulating  line  along  the  crest  of 
the  last  and  lowest  ridge  of  the  Albanian  Hills, 
and  leads  to  the  borders  of  the  Alban  Lake.  In 
parts  it  hides  itself  in  thick-leaved  hollows,  in  parts 
climbs  the  open  hill-side  and  overlooks  the  Cam- 
pagna.  Then  it  winds  along  the  brim  of  the  deep, 
oval  basin  of  the  lake,  to  the  village  of  Castel 
Gandolfo,  and  thence  onward  to  Marino,  Grotta- 
Fcrrata,  and  Frascati. 

That  part  of  the  road  which  looks  down  upon 
the  lake  passes  through  a  magnificent  gallery  of 
thick  embowering  trees,  whose  dense  and  luxuri 
ant  foliage  completely  shuts  out  the  noonday  sun, 
forming 


THE    VILLAGE    OF    LA    RICCIA.  297 

"  A  greensward  wagon-way,  that,  like 
Cathedral  aisle,  completely  roofed  with  branches, 
Runs  through  the  gloomy  wood  from  top  to  bottom, 
And  has  at  either  end  a  Gothic  door 
Wide  open. 

This  long  sylvan  arcade  is  called  the  Gcdleria- 
di-sopra,  to  distinguish  it  from  the  Galleria-di-sotto, 
a  similar,  though  less  beautiful  avenue,  leading 
from  Castel  Gandolfo  to  Albano,  under  the  brow 
of  the  hill.  In  this  upper  gallery,  and  almost  hid 
den  amid  its  old  and  leafy  trees,  stands  a  Capuchin 
convent,  with  a  little  esplanade  in  front,  from  which 
the  eye  enjoys  a  beautiful  view  of  the  lake,  and  the 
swelling  hills  beyond.  It  is  a  lovely  spot, — so 
lonely,  cool,  and  still ;  and  was  my  favorite  and 
most  frequented  haunt. 

Another  pathway  conducts  you  round  the  south 
ern  shore  of  the  Alban  Lake,  and,  after  passing 
the  site  of  the  ancient  Alba  Longa,  and  the  con 
vent  of  Palazzuolo,  turns  off  to  the  right  through 
a  luxuriant  forest,  and  climbs  the  rugged  precipice 
of  Rocca  di  Papa.  Behind  this  village  swells  the 
rounded  peak  of  Monte  Cavo,  the  highest  pinnacle 
of  the  Albanian  Hills,  rising  three  thousand  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  sea.  Upon  its  summit  once 
stood  a  temple  of  Jupiter,  and  the  Triumphal  Way, 
by  which  the  Roman  conquerors  ascended  once  a 
year  in  solemn  procession  to  offer  sacrifices,  still 
leads  you  up  the  side  of  the  hill.  But  a  convent 
has  been  built  upon  the  ruins  of  the  ancient  tem 
ple,  and  the  disciples  of  Loyola  are  now  the  only 


298  THE   VILLAGE   OF   LA   RICCIA. 

conquerors  that  tread  the  pavement  of  the  Tri 
umphal  Way. 

The  view  from  the  windows  of  the  convent  is 
vast  and  magnificent  Directly  beneath  you,  the 
sight  plunges  headlong  into  a  gulf  of  dark-green 
foliage, — the  Alban  Lake  seems  so  near,  that  you 
can  almost  drop  a  pebble  into  it, — and  NemL 
imbosomed  in  a  green  and  cup-like  valley,  lies  like 
a  dew-drop  in  the  hollow  of  a  leaf.  All  around 
you,  upon  every  swell  of  the  landscape,  the  white 
walls  of  rural  towns  and  villages  peep  from  their 
leafy  coverts, — Genzano,  La  Riccia,  Castel  Gan- 
dolfo,  and  Albano  ;  and  beyond  spreads  the  flat  and 
desolate  Campagna,  with  Rome  in  its  centre,  and 
(  seamed  by  the  silver  thread  of  the  Tiber,  that  at 
Ostia,  "  with  a  pleasant  stream,  whirling  in  rapid 
eddies,  and  yellow  with  much  sand,  rushes  forward 
into  the  sea."  The  scene  of  half  the  ^Eneid  in 
f  spread  beneath  you  like  a  map ;  and  it  would  need 
volumes  to  describe  each  point  that  arrests  the  eye 
in  this  magnificent  panorama. 

As  I  stood  leaning  over  the  balcony  of  the  cr  n- 
vent,  giving  myself  up  to  those  reflections  wh*  sh 
the  scene  inspired,  one  of  the  brotherhood  came 
from  a  neighbouring  cell,  and  entered  into  conver 
sation  with  me.  He  was  an  old  man,  with  a  hoary 
head  and  a  trembling  hand ;  yet  his  voice  was 
musical  and  soft,  and  his  eye  still  beamed  with  the 
enthusiasm  of  youth. 

"  How  wonderful,"  said  he,  "  is  the  scene  before 
as !  I  have  been  an  inmate  of  these  walls  for  thirty 


THE    VILLAGE    OF    LA   RICCIA.  299 

• 

years,  and  yet  this  prospect  is  as  beautiful  to  my 
eye  as  when  1  gazed  upon  it  for  the  first  time.  Not 
a  day  passes  that  I  do  not  come  to  this  window  to 
behold  and  to  admire.  My  heart  is  still  alive  to 
the  beauties  of  the  scene,  and  to  all  the  classic  asso 
ciations  it  inspires." 

"You  have  never,  then,  been  whipped  by  an 
angel  for  reading  Cicero  and  Plautus,  as  St.  Jerome 
was?" 

"  No,"  said  the  monk,  with  a  smile.  "  From  my 
youth  up  I  have  been  a  disciple  of  Chrysostom, 
who  often  slept  with  the  comedies  of  Aristophanes 
beneath  his  pillow  ;  and  yet  I  confess  that  the  clas 
sic  associations  of  Roman  history  and  fable  are  not 
the  most  thrilling  which  this  scene  awakens  in  my 
mind.  Yonder  is  the  bridge  from  which  Constan- 
tine  beheld  the  miraculous  cross  of  fire  in  the  sky ; 
and  I  can  never  forget  that  this  convent  is  built 
upon  the  ruins  of  a  pagan  temple.  The  town  of 
Ostia,  which  lies  before  us  on  the  seashore,  is  re 
nowned  as  the  spot  where  the  Trojan  fugitive  first 
landed  on  the  coast  of  Italy.  But  other  associa 
tions  than  this  have  made  the  spot  holy  in  my  sight. 
Marcus  Minutius  Felix,  a  Roman  lawyer,  who 
flourished  in  the  third  century,  a  convert  to  our 
blessed  faith,  and  one  of  the  purest  writers  of  the 
Latin  church,  here  places  the  scene  of  his  "  Octa- 
vius."  This  work  has  probably  never  fallen  into 
your  hands ;  for  you  are  too  young  to  have  pushed 
your  studies  into  the  dusty  tomes  of  the  early 
Christian  fathers." 


300  THE   VILLAGE   OF   LA   RICCIA. 

• 

I  replied  that  I  had  never  so  much  as  heard  tho 
book  mentioned  before;  and  the  monk  contin 
ued  :  — 

"It  is  a  dialogue  upon  the  vanity  of  pagan 
idolatry  and  the  truth  of  the  Christian  religion, 
between  Ciccilius,  a  heathen,  and  Octavius,  a 
Christian.  The  style  is  rich,  flowing,  and  poetical ; 
and  if  the  author  handles  his  weapons  with  less 
power  than  a  Tertullian,  yet  he  exhibits  equal 
adroitness  and  more  grace.  He  has  rather  the 
studied  elegance  of  the  Roman  lawyer,  than  the 
bold  spirit  of  a  Christian  martyr.  But  the  volume 
is  a  treasure  to  me  in  my  solitary  hours,  and  I  love 
to  sit  here  upon  the  balcony,  and  con  its  poetic 
language  and  sweet  imagery.  You  shall  see  the 
volume  ;  I  carry  it  in  my  bosom." 

With  these  words,  the  monk  drew  from  the  folds 
of  his  gown  a  small  volume,  bound  in  parchment, 
and  clasped  with  silver ;  and,  turning  over  its  well- 
worn  leaves,  continued:  — 

"  In  the  introduction,  the  author  describes  him 
self  as  walking  upon  the  seashore  at  Ostia,  in 
company  with  his  friends  Octavius  and  Caecilius. 
Observe  in  what  beautiful  language  he  describes 
the  scene." 

Here  he  read  to  me  the  following  passage,  which 
I  transcribe,  not  from  memory,  but  from  the  book 
itself. 

"  It  was  vacation-time,  and  that  gave  me  aloose 
from  my  business  at  the  bar;  for  it  was  the  season 
after  the  summer's  heat,  when  autumn  promised 


THE    VILLAGE    OF    LA    RICCIA.  301 

fair,  and  put  on  tlie  face  of  temperate.  We  set 
out,  therefore,  in  the  morning  early,  and  as  we 
were  walking  upon  the  seashore,  and  a  kindly 
breeze  fanned  and  refreshed  our  limbs,  and  the 
yielding  sand  softly  submitted  to  our  feet  and  made 
it  delicious  travelling,  Caecilius  on  a  sudden  espied 
the  statue  of  Serapis,  and,  according  to  the  vulgar 
mode  of  superstition,  raised  his  hand  to  his  mouth, 
and  paid  his  adoration  in  kisses.  Upon  which, 
Octavms,  addressing  himself  to  me,  said, — '  It  is 
not  well  done,  my  brother  Marcus,  thus  to  leave 
your  inseparable  companion  in  the  depth  of  vulgar 
darkness,  and  to  suffer  him,  in  so  clear  a  day,  to 
stumble  upon  stones ;  stones,  indeed,  of  figure,  and 
anointed  with  oil,  and  crowned ;  but  stones,  how 
ever,  still  they  are ; — for  you  cannot  but  be  sen 
sible  that  your  permitting  so  foul  an  error  in  your 
friend  redounds  no  less  to  your  disgrace  than  his.' 
This  discourse  of  his  held  us  through  half  the  city ; 
and  now  we  began  to  find  ourselves  upon  the  free 
and  open  shore.  There  the  gently  washing  waves 
had  spread  the  extremest  sands  into  the  order  of 
an  artificial  walk ;  and  as  the  sea  always  expresses 
some  roughness  in  his  looks,  even  when  the  winds 
are  still,  although  he  did  not  roll  in  foam  and  angry 
surges  to  the  shore,  yet  were  we  much  delighted, 
as  we  walked  upon  the  edges  of  the  water,  to  see 
the  crisping,  frizzly  waves  glide  in  snaky  folds,  one 
while  playing  against  our  feet,  and  then  again 
retiring  and  lost  in  the  devouring  ocean.  Softly, 
then,  and  calmly  as  the  sea  about  us,  we  travelled 


302  THE   VILLAGE   OF   LA   RICCIA. 

on,  and  kept  upon  the  brim  of  the  gently  declining 
shore,  beguiling  the  way  with  our  stories." 

Here  the  sound  of  the  convent-bell  interrupted 
the  reading  of  the  monk,  and,  closing  the  volume, 
he  replaced  it  in  his  bosom,  and  bade  me  farewell, 
frith  a  parting  injunction  to  read  the  "  Octavius  " 
of  Minutius  Felix  as  soon  as  I  should  return  to 
Home. 

During  the  summer  months,  La  Riccia  is  a  favor 
ite  resort  of  foreign  artists  who  are  pursuing  their 
studies  in  the  churches  and  galleries  of  Rome. 
Tired  of  copying  the  works  of  art,  they  go  forth  to 
copy  the  works  of  nature ;  and  you  will  find  them 
perched  on  their  camp-stools  at  every  picturesque 
point  of  view,  with  white  umbrellas  to  shield  them 
from  the  sun,  and  paint-boxes  upon  their  knees, 
sketching  with  busy  hands  the  smiling  features  of 
the  landscape.  The  peasantry,  too,  are  fine  models 
for  their  study.  The  women  of  Genzano  are 
noted  for  their  beauty,  and  almost  every  village 
in  the  neighbourhood  has  something  peculiar  in  its 
costume. 

The  sultry  day  was  closing,  and  I  had  reached, 
in  my  accustomed  evening's  walk,  the  woodland 
gallery  that  looks  down  upon  the  Alban  Lake. 
The  setting  sun  seemed  to  melt  away  in  the  sky, 
dissolving  into  a  golden  rain  that  bathed  the  whole 
Campagna  with  unearthly  splendor;  while  Romo 
in  the  distance,  half-hidden,  half-revealed,  lay  float 
ing  like  a  mote  in  the  broad  and  misty  sunbeam. 
The  woodland  walk  before  me  seemed  roofed  with 


THE    VILLAGE   OF   LA   RICCIA.  303 

gold  and  emerald  ;  and  at  intervals  across  its  leafy 
arches  shot  the  level  rays  of  the  sun,  kindling,  as 
they  passed,  like  the  burning  shaft  of  Acestes.  Be 
neath  me  the  lake  slept  quietly.  A  blue,  smoky 
vapor  floated  around  its  overhanging  cliffs ;  the 
tapering  cone  of  Monte  Cavo  hung  reflected  in  the 
water ;  a  little  boat  skimmed  along  its  glassy  sur 
face,  and  I  could  even  hear  the  sound  of  the  labor 
ing  oar,  so  motionless  and  silent  was  the  air  around 
me. 

I  soon  reached  the  convent  of  Castel  Gandolfo. 
Upon  one  of  the  stone  benches  of  the  esplanade 
sat  a  monk  with  a  book  in  his  hand.  He  saluted 
me,  as  I  approached,  and  some  trivial  remarks 
upon  the  scene  before  us  led  us  into  conversation. 
I  observed  by  his  accent  that  he  was  not  a  native 
of  Italy,  though  he  spoke  Italian  with  great  fluency. 
In  this  opinion  I  was  confirmed  by  his  saying  that 
he  should  soon  bid  farewell  to  Italy  and  return  to 
his  native  lakes  and  mountains  in  the  north  of 
Ireland.  I  then  said  to  him  in  English, — 

"  How  strange,  that  an  Irishman  and  an  Anglo- 
American  should  be  conversing  together  in  Italian 
upon  the  shores  of  Lake  Albano  !  " 

"  It  is  strange,"  said  he,  with  a  smile  ;  "  though 
stranger  things  have  happened.  But  I  owe  the 
pleasure  of  this  meeting  to  a  circumstance  which 
changes  that  pleasure  into  pain.  I  have  been  de 
tained  here  many  weeks  beyond  the  time  I  had 
fixed  for  my  departure  by  the  sickness  of  a  friend, 
who  lies  at  the  point  of  death  within  the  walls  of 
this  convent." 


304  THE    VILLAGE   OF    LA    R1CCIA. 

"  Is  he,  too,  a  Capuchin  friar  like  yourself?  " 
"  lie  is.  AVe  came  together  from  our  native 
land,  some  six  years  ago,  to  study  at  the  Jesuit 
College  in  Rome.  This  summer  we  were  to  have 
returned  home  again  ;  but  I  shall  now  make  the 
journey  alone." 

"Is  there,  then,  no  hope  of  his  recovery  ?  " 
"  None  whatever,"  answered  the  monk,  shaking 
his  head.  "  He  has  been  brought  to  this  convent 
from  Rome,  for  the  benefit  of  a  purer  air ;  but  it 
is  only  to  die,  and  be  buried  near  the  borders  of 
this  beautiful  lake.  He  is  a  victim  of  consumption. 
But  come  with  me  to  his  cell.  He  will  feel  it  a 
kindness  to  have  you  visit  him.  Such  a  mark  of 
sympathy  in  a  stranger  will  be  grateful  to  him  in 
this  foreign  land,  where  friends  are  so  few." 

We  entered  the  chapel  together,  and,  ascending 
a  flight  of  steps  beside  the  altar,  pajped  into  tho 
cloisters  of  the  convent.  Another  flight  of  steps 
led  us  to  the  dormitories  above,  in  one  of  which  the 
sick  man  lay.  Here  my  guide  left  me  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  softly  entered  a  neighbouring  cell.  He 
soon  returned,  and  beckoned  me  to  come  in.  Tho 
room  was  dark  and  hot;  for  the  window-shutter 
had  been  closed  to  keep  out  the  rays  of  the  sun, 
that  in  the  after  part  of  the  day  fell  unobstructed 
upon  the  western  wall  of  the  convent  In  one 
comer  of  the  little  room,  upon  a  pallet  of  straw, 
lay  the  sick  man,  with  his  face  towards  the  wall. 
As  I  entered,  he  raised  himself  upon  his  elbow, 
and,  stretching  out  his  hand  to  me,  said,  in  a  faint 
voice, — 


THE   VILLAGE   OF   LA   RICCIA.  305 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  It  is  kind  in  you  to 
make  me  this  visit." 

Then  speaking  to  his  friend,  he  begged  him  to 
open  the  window-shutter  and  let  in  the  light  and 
air ;  and  as  the  bright  sunbeam  through  the  wreath 
ing  vapors  of  evening  played  upon  the  wall  and 
ceiling,  he  said,  with  a  sigh, — 

"  How  beautiful  is  an  Italian  sunset !  Its  splendor 
is  all  around  us,  as  if  we  stood  in  the  horizon  itself 
and  could  touch  the  sky.  And  yet,  to  a  sick  man's 
•feeble  and  distempered  sight  it  has  a  wan  and 
sickly  hue.  He  turns  away  with  an  aching  heart 
from  the  splendor  he  cannot  enjoy.  The  cool  air 
seems  the  only  friendly  thing  that  is  left  for  him." 

As  he  spake,  a  deeper  shade  of  sadness  stole 
over  his  pale  countenance,  sallow  and  attenuated 
by  long  sickness.  But  it  soon  passed'  off;  and  as 
the  conversation  changed  to  other  topics,  he  grew 
cheerful  again.  He  spoke  of  his  return  to  his 
native  land  with  childish  delight.  This  hope  had 
not  deserted  him.  It  seemed  never  to  have  entered 
his  mind  that  even  this  consolation  would  be  de 
nied  him, — that  death  would  thwart  even  these 
fond  anticipations. 

"  I  shall  soon  be  well  enough,"  said  he,  "  to  un 
dertake  the  journey;  and,  O,  with  what  delight 
shall  I  turn  my  back  upon  the  Apennines  !  We 
shall  cross  the  Alps  into  Switzerland,  then  go  down 
the  Rhine  to  England,  and  soon,  soon  we  shall  see 
the  shores  of  the  Emerald  Isle,  and  once  more 
embrace  father,  mother,  sisters !  By  my  profession, 

VOL.  i.  20 


806  THE   VILLAGE    OF    LA   RICCIA. 

I  have  renounced  the  world,  but  not  those  holy 
emotions  of  love  which  are  one  of  the  highest, 
attributes  of  the  soul,  and  which,  though  sown  in 
corruption  here,  shall  hereafter  be  raised  in  incor- 
ruption.  No ;  even  he  that  died  for  us  upon  the 
cross,  in  the  last  hour,  in  the  unutterable  agony  of 
death,  was  mindful  of  his  mother;  as  if  to  toach 
us  that  this  holy  love  should  be  our  last  worldly 
thought,  the  last  point  of  earth  from  which  the  soul 
should  take  its  flight  for  heaven." 

He  ceased  to  speak.  His  eyes  were  fastened  * 
upon  the  sky  with  a  fixed  and  steady  gaze,  though 
all  unconsciously,  for  his  thoughts  were  far  away 
amid  the  scenes  of  his  distant  home.  As  I  left  his 
cell,  he  seemed  sinking  to  sleep,  and  hardly  noticed 
my  departure.  The  gloom  of  twilight  had  already 
filled  the  cloisters ;  the  monks  were  chanting  their 
evening  hymn  in  the  chapel ;  and  oae  unbroken 
shadow  spread  through  the  long  cathedral  aisle  of 
forest-trees  which  led  me  homeward.  There,  in 
the  silence  of  the  hour,  and  amid  the  almost  se 
pulchral  gloom  of  the  woodland  scene,  I  tried  to 
impress  upon  my  careless  heart  the  serious  and 
affecting  lesson  I  had  learned. 

I  saw  the  sick  monk  no  more ;  but  a  day  or  two 
afterward  I  heard  in  the  village  that  he  had  de 
parted, — not  for  an  earthly,  but  for  a  heavenly 
home. 


NOTE-BOOK. 


NOTE-BOOK. 

Once  more  among  the  old,  gigantic  hills, 

With  vapors  clouded  o'er, 
The  vales  of  Lombardy  grow  dim  behind, 

And  rocks  ascend  before. 
They  beckon  me, — the  giants, — from  afar, 

They  wing  my  footsteps  on; 
Their  helms  of  ice,  their  plumage  of  the  pine, 

Their  cuirasses  of  stone. 

OEaiENSCHLAGEB. 

THE  glorious  autumn  closed.  From  tho,  Abru;  zi 
Mountains  came  the  Zampognari,  playing  their 
rustic  bagpipes  beneath  the  images  of  the  Virgin 
in  the  streets  of  Rome,  and  hailing  with  rude  min 
strelsy  the  approach  of  merry  Christmas.  The 
shops  were  full  of  dolls  and  playthings  for  the  Bi- 
fana,  who  enacts  in  Italy  the  same  merry  interlude 
for  children  that  Santiclaus  does  in  the  North :  and 
travellers  from  colder,  climes  began  to  fly  south 
ward,  like  sun-seeking  swallows. 

I  left  Rome  for  Venice,  crossing  the  Apennines 
by  the  wild  gorge  of  flic  Strettura,  in  a  drenching 
rain.  At  Fano  we  struck  into  the  sands  of  the 
Adriatic,  and  followed  the  seashore  northward  to 
Rimini,  where  in  the  market-place  stands  a  pedes 
tal  of  stone,  from  which,  as  an  officious  cicerone 
informed  me,  "  Julius  Caesar  preached  to  his  army, 


310  NOTE-BOOK. 

before  crossing  the  Rubicon."  Other  principal 
points  in  my  journey  were  Bologna,  with  its  Campo 
Santo,  its  gloomy  arcades,  and  its  sausages ;  Fer- 
rara,  with  its  ducal  palace  and  the  dungeon  of 
Tasso ;  Padua  the  Learned,  with  its  sombre  and 
scholastic  air,  and  its  inhabitants  "  apt  for  pike  or 
pen." 


I  FIRST  saw  Venice  by  moonlight,  as  we  skimmed 
by  the  island  of  St.  George  in  a  felucca,  and 
entered  the  Grand  Canal.  A  thousand  lamps 
glittered  from  the  square  of  St  Mark,  and  along 
the  water's  edge.  Above  rose  the  cloudy  shapes 
of  spires,  domes,  and  palaces,  emerging  from  the 
sea ;  and  occasionally  the  twinkling  lamp  of  a  gon 
dola  darted  across  the  water  like  a  shooting  star, 
and  suddenly  disappeared,  as  if  quenched  in  the 
wave.  There  was  something  so  unearthly  in  the 
scene, — so  visionary  and  fairy-like, — that  I  almost 
expected  to  sec  the  city  float  away  like  a  cloud, 
and  dissolve  into  thin  air. 

Howell,  in  his  "  Signorie  of  Venice,"  says,  "  It  is 
the  water,  wherein  she  lies  like  a  swan's  nest,  that 
doth  both  fence  and  feed  her."  Again :  "  She 
swims  in  wealth  and  wantonness,  as  well  as  she 
doth  in  the  waters ;  she  melts  in  softness  and  sen 
suality,  as  much  as  any  other  whatsoever."  And 
still  farther :  "  Her  streets  are  so  neat  and  evenly 
paved,  that  in  the  dead  of  winter  one  may  walk 
up  and  down  in  a  pair  of  satin  pantables  and  criin« 


NOTE-BOOK.  311 

son  silk  stockings,  and  not  be  dirtied."  And  the 
old  Italian  proverb  says, — 

"  Venegia,  Venegia, 
Chi  non  ti  vede  non  ti  pregia; 
Ma  chi  t'  lia  troppo  veduto 
Ti  dispregia! " 

Venice,  Venice,  lie  that  doth  not  see  thee  doth  not 
prize  thee:  but  he  that  hath  too  much  seen  thee 
doth  despise  thee ! 

Should  you  ever  want  a  gondolier  at  Venice  to 
sing  you  a  passage  from  Tasso  by  moonlight,  in 
quire  for  Toni  Toscan.  He  has  a  voice  like  a 
raven.  I  sketched  his  portrait  in  my  note-book ; 
and  he  wrote  beneath  it  this  inscription  : — 

"  Poeta  Natural  che  Venizian, 

Ch'  el  so  nome  xe  un  tal  Toni  Toscan." 


THE  road  from  Venice  to  Trieste  traverses  a 
vast  tract  of  level  land,  with  the  Friulian  Moun 
tains  on  the  left,  and  the  Adriatic  on  the  right. 
You  pass  through  long  avenues  of  trees,  and  the 
road  stretches  in  unbroken  perspective  before  and 
behind.  Trieste  is  a  busy,  commercial  city,  with 
wide  streets  intersecting  each  other  at  right  angles. 
It  is  a  mart  for  all  nations.  Greeks,  Turks,  Italians, 
Germans,  French,  and  English  meet  you  at  every 
corner  and  in  every  coffee-house  ;  and  the  ever- 


312  NOTE-BOOK. 

changing  variety  of  national  countenance  and 
costume  afibrds  an  amusing  and  instructive  stuuy 
for  a  traveller. 


TRIESTE  to  Vienna.  Daybreak  among  tho 
Carnic  Alps.  Above  and  around  me  huge  snow- 
covered  pinnacles,  shapeless  masses  in  the  pale 
starlight, — till  touched  by  the  morning  sunbeam, 
as  by  Ithuriel's  spear,  they  assumed  their  natural 
forms  and  dimensions.  A  long,  winding  valley 
beneath,  sheeted  with  spotless  s/iow.  At  my  side 
a  yawning  and  rent  chasm ; — a  mountain  brook, — 
seen  now  and  then  through  the  chinks  of  its  icy 
bridge, — black  and  treacherous, — and  tinkling 
along  its  frozen  channel  with  a  sound  like  a 
distant  clanking  of  chains. 

Magnificent  highland  scenery  between  Griitz  and 
Vienna  in  the  Steiermark.  The  wild  mountain- 
pass  from  Meerzuschlag  to  Schottwien.  A  castle 
built  like  an  eagle's  nest  upon  the  top  of  a  per 
pendicular  crag.  A  little  hamlet  at  the  base  of  the 
mountain.  A  covered  wagon,  drawn  by  twenty- 
one  horses,  slowly  toiling  up  the  slippery,  zigzag 
road.  A  snow-storm.  Reached  Vienna  at  mid 
night. 


ON  the  southern  bank  of  the  Danube,  about  six 
teen  miles  above  Vienna,  stands  the  ancient  castle 
of  Greifenstein,  where — if  the  tale  be  true,  though 


NOTE-BOOK.  313 

many  doubt  and  some  deny  it — Richaid  the  Lion- 
heart,  of  England,  was  imprisoned,  when  returning 
from  the  third  crusade.  It  is  built  upon  the  sum 
mit  of  a  steep  and  rocky  hill,  that  rises  just  far 
enough  from  the  river's  brink  to  leave  a  foothold 
for  the  highway.  At  the  base  of  the  hill  stands 
the  village  of  Greifenstein,  from  which  a  winding 
pathway  leads  you  to  the  old  castle.  You  pass 
through  an  arched  gate  into  a  narrow  court-yard, 
and  thence  onward  to  a  large,  square  tower.  Near 
the  doorway,  and  deeply  cut  into  the  solid  rock, 
upon  which  the  castle  stands,  is  the  form  of  a  human 
band  so  perfect  that  your  own  lies  in  it  as  in  a 
mould.  And  hence  the  name  of  Greifenstein.  In 
the  square  tower  is  Richard's  prison,  completely 
isolated  from  the  rest  of  the  castle.  A  wooden 
staircase  leads  you  up  on  the  outside  to  a  light 
balcony,  running  entirely  round  the  tower,  not  far 
below  its  turrets.  From  this  balcony  you  enter 
the  prison, — a  small,  square  chamber,  lighted  by 
two  Gothic  windows.  The  walls  of  the  tower  are 
some  five  feet  thick ;  and  in  the  pavement  is  a 
trapdoor,  opening  into  a  dismal  vault, — a  vast 
dungeon,  which  occupies  all  the  lower  part  of  the 
tower,  quite  down  to  its  rocky  foundations,  and 
which  formerly  had  no  entrance  but  the  trapdoor 
above.  In  one  corner  of  the  chamber  stands  a 
large  cage  of  oaken  timber,  in  which  the  royal 
prisoner  is  said  to  have  been  shut  up ; — the  gross 
est  lie  that  ever  cheated  the  gaping  curiosify  of  a 
traveller. 


314  NOTE-HOOK. 

The  balcony  commands  sonic  fine  and  picturesque 
views.  Beneath  you  winds  the  lordly  Danube, 
spreading  its  dark  waters  over  a  wide  tract  of 
meadow-land,  and  forming  numerous  little  islands  ; 
and  all  around,  the  landscape  is  bounded  by  forest- 
covered  hills,  topped  by  the  mouldering  turrets  of 
a  feudal  castle  or  the  tapering  spire  of  a  village 
church.  The  spot  is  well  worth  visiting,  though 
German  antiquaries  say  that  Richard  was  not  im 
prisoned  there ;  this  story  being  at  best  a  bold  con 
jecture  of  what  is  possible,  though  not  probable. 


FROM  Vienna  I  passed  northward,  visiting 
Prague,  Dresden,  and  Leipsic,  and  then  folding 
my  wings  for  a  season  in  the  scholastic  shades  of 
Gottingen.  Thence  I  passed  through  Cassel  to 
Frankfort  on  the  Maine ;  and  thence  to  Mayence, 
where  I  took  the  steamboat  down  the  Rhine.  These 
several  journeys  I  shall  not  describe,  for  as  many 
several  reasons.  First, — but  no  matter, — I  prefer 
thus  to  stride  across  the  earth  like  the  Saturnian 
in  Micromegas,  making  but  one  step  from  the 
Adriatic  to  the  German  Ocean.  I  leave  untold 
the  wonders  of  the  wondrous  Rhine,  a  fascinating 
theme.  Not  even  the  beauties  of  the  Vautsburg 
and  the  Bingenloch  shall  detain  me.  I  hasten, 
like  the  blue  waters  of  that  romantic  river,  to  lose 
myself  in  the  sands  of  Holland. 


THE 

+ 

PILGRIM'S    SALUTATION. 

Ye  who  have  traced  the  Pilgrim  to  the  scene 
Which  is  his  last,  if  in  your  memories  dwell 
A  thought  which  once  was  his,  if  on  ye  swell 
A  single  recollection,  not  in  vain 
He  wore  his  sandal-shoon  and  scallop-shell. 

CHILDE  HAROLD. 

THESE,  fair  dames  and  courteous  gentlemen, 
are  some  of  the  scenes  and  musings  of  my  pil 
grimage,  when  I  journeyed  away  from  my  kith 
and  kin  into  the  land  of  Outre-Mer.  And  yet 
amid  these  scenes  and  musings, — amid  all  the 
novelties  of  the  Old  World,  and  the  quick  succes 
sion  of  images  that  were  continually  calling  my 
thoughts  away,  there  were  always  fond  regrets  and 
longings  after  the  land  of  my  birth  lurking  in  the 
secret  corners  of  my  heart.  When  I  stood  by 
the  seashore,  and  listened  to  the  melancholy  and 
familiar  roar  of  its  waves,  it  seemed  but  a  step 
from  the  threshold  of  a  foreign  land  to  the  fireside 
of  home ;  and  when  I  watched  the  out-bound  sail, 
fading  over  the  water's  edge,  and  losing  itself  in 
the  blue  mists  of  the  sea,  my  heart  went  with  it, 
and  I  turned  away  fancy-sick  with  the  blessings 
of  home  and  the  endearments  of  domestic  lore. 


DIG  THE  PILGRIM'S  SALUTATION. 

"  I  know  not  how, — but  in  yon  land  of  roses 

My  heart  was  heavy  still; 
•   I  startled  at  the  warbling  nightingale, 

The  zephyr  on  the  hill. 
They  said  the  stars  shone  with  a  softer  gleam : 

It  seemed  not  so  to  me! 
In  vain  a  scene  of  beauty  beamed  around, — 

My  thoughts  were  o'er  the  sea." 

At  times  I  would  sit  at  midnight  in  the  solitude 
of  my  chamber,  and  give  way  to  the  recollection 
of  distant  friends.  How  delightful  it  is  thus  to 
strengthen  within  us  the  golden  threads  that  unite 
our  sympathies  with  the  past, — to  fill  up,  as  it  were, 
the  blanks  of  existence  with  the  images  of  those 
we  love !  How  sweet  are  these  dreams  of  home 
in  a  foreign  land  !  How  calmly  across  life's  stormy 
sea  blooms  that  little  world  of  affection,  like  those 
Hesperian  isles  where  eternal  summer  reigns,  and 
the  olive  blossoms  all  the  year  round,  and  honey 
distils  from  the  hollow  oak!  Truly,  the  love  of 
home  is  interwoven  with  all  that  is  pure,  and  deep, 
and  lasting  in  earthly  affection.  Let  us  wander 
where  we  may,  the  heart  looks  back  with  secret 
longing  to  the  paternal  roof.  There  the  scattered 
rays  of  affection  concentrate.  Time  may  enfeeble 
them,  distance  overshadow  them,  and  the  storms 
of  life  obstruct  them  for  a  season ;  but  they  will  at 
length  break  through  the  cloud  and  storm,  and 
glow,  and  burn,  and  brighten  around  the  peaceful 
threshold  of  home ! 

And  now,  farewell!     The  storm  is  over,  and 


THE  PILGRIM'S  SALUTATION.  317 

through  the  parting  clouds  the  radiant  sunshine 
breaks  upon  my  path.  God's  blessing  upon  you 
for  your  hospitality.  I  fear  I  have  but  poorly 
repaid  it  by  these  tales  of  my  pilgrimage ;  and  I 
bear  your  kindness  meekly,  for  I  come  not  like 
Theudas  of  old,  "boasting  myself  to  be  some- 
body." 

Farewell !  My  prayer  is,  that  I  be  not  among 
you  as  the  stranger  at  the  court  of  Busins ;  that 
your  God-speed  be  not  a  thrust  that  kills. 

The  Pilgrim's  benison  upon  this  honorable  com 
pany.  Pax  vobiscum  ! 


COLOPHON. 


Heart,  take  thine  ease, — 
Men  hard  to  please 

Thou  haply  mightst  offend; 
Though  some  speak  ill 
Of  thee,  some  will 

Say  better;— there's  an  end. 

HETLW. 

MY  pilgrimage  is  ended.  I  have  come  home  to 
rest ;  and,  recording  the  time  past,  I  have  fulfilled 
these  things,  and  written  them  in  this  book,  as  it 
would  come  into  my  mind, — for  the  most  part, 
when  the  duties  of  the  day  were  over,  and  the 
world  around  me  was  hushed  in  sleep.  The  pen 
wherewith  I  write  most  easily  is  a  feather  stolen 
from  the  sable  wing  of  night.  Even  now,  as  I 
record  these  parting  words,  it  is  long  past  midnight 
The  morning  watches  have  begun.  And  as  I  write, 
the  melancholy  thought  intrudes  upon  me, — To 
what  end  is  all  this  toil?  Of  what  avail  these 
midnight  vigils?  Dost  thou  covet  fame?  Vain 
dreamer  1  A  few  brief  days, — and  what  will  the 
busy  world  know  of  thee  ?  Alas  !  this  little  book 
is  but  a  bubble  on  the  stream ;  and  although  it 
may  catch  the  sunshine  for  a  moment,  yet  it  will 
goon  float  down  the  swift-rushing  current,  and  bo 
seen  no  more ! 


DRIFT-WOOD, 

A    COLLECTION    OF    ESSAYS. 


So  must  I  likewise  take  some  time  to  view 
What  I  have  done,  ere  I  proceed  anew. 
Perhaps  I  may  have  cause  to  interline, 
To  alter,  or  to  add ;  the  work  is  mine, 
And  I  may  manage  it  as  I  see  best. 

QUARLES. 


FRITHIOF'S    SAGA. 

1837. 

HERE  beginneth  the  Legend  of  Frithiof  the 
Valiant.  lie  was  the  son  of  Thorsten  Vikingsson, 
a  thane,  and  loved  fair  Ingeborg,  the  daughter  of  a 
king.  Ifis  fame  was  great  in  the  North,  and  his 
name  in  the  song  of  bards.  His  marvellous  deeds 
on  land  and  sea  are  told  in  tradition;  and  his 
history  is  written  in  the  old  Icelandic  Saga  that 
bears  his  name.  This  Saga  is  in  prose,  with  occa 
sionally  a  few  stanzas  of  verse.  Upon  the  events 
recorded  in  it  the  poem  of  Tegner  is  founded. 

Esaias  Tegndr,  Bishop  of  Wexio  and  Knight  of 
the  Order  of  the  North  Star,  was  born  in  1782 
and  died  in  1846.  He  stands  first  among  the  poets 
of  Sweden ;  a  man  of  a  grand  and  gorgeous 
imagination, — a  poetic  genius  of  high  order.  His 
countrymen  are  proud  of  him,  and  rejoice  in  his 
fame.  If  you  speak  of  their  literature,  Tegndr 
will  be  the  first  name  upon  their  lips.  They  will 
tell  you  with  enthusiasm  of  Frithiof 's  Saga;  and 
of  Axel,  and  Svea,  and  the  Children  of  the  Lord's 
Supper.  The  modern  Scald  has  written  his  name 
in  immortal  runes ;  not  on  the  bark  of  trees  alone, 

VOL.  I.  -21 


32*  FRITIIIOF'S  SAGA. 

in  the  "unspeakable  rural  solitudes"  of  pastoral 
song,  but  on  the  mountains  of  his  fatherland,  and 
the  cliffs  that  overhang  the  sea,  and  on  the  tombs 
of  ancient  heroes,  whose  histories  are  epic  poems. 

The  Legend  of  Frithiof  is  an  epic  poem,  com 
posed  of  a  series  of  ballads,  each  describing  some 
event  in  the  hero's  life,  and  each  written  in  a 
different  measure,  according  with  the  action  de 
scribed  in  the  ballad.  This  is  a  novel  idea ;  and 
perhaps  thereby  the  poem  loses  something  in 
sober,  epic  dignity.  But  the  loss  is  more  than 
made  up  by  the  greater  spirit  of  the  narrative ; 
and  it  seems  a  laudable  innovation  thus  to  describe 
various  scenes  in  various  metres,  and  not  to  employ 
the  same  for  a  game  of  chess  and  a  storm  at  sea. 

It  may  be  urged  against  Tegndr,  with  some  show 
of  truth,  that  he  is  too  profuse  and  elaborate  in  hid 
use  of  figurative  language,  and  that  the  same  fig 
ures  are  sometimes  repeated  with  little  variation. 
But  the  reader  must  bear  in  mind  that  the  work 
before  him  is  written  in  the  spirit  of  the  Past ;  in 
the  spirit  of  that  old  poetry  of  the  North,  in  which 
the  same  images  and  expressions  are  oft  repeated, 
and  the  sword  is  called  the  Lightning's  Brother ;  a 
banner,  the  Hider  of  Heaven ;  gold,  the  Daylight 
of  Dwarfs ;  and  the  grave,  the  Green  Gate  of 
Paradise.  The  old  Scald  smote  the  strings  of  his 
harp  with  as  bold  a  hand  as  the  Berserk  smote  his 
foe.  When  heroes  fell  in  battle,  he  sang  of  them 
in  his  Drapa,  or  Death-Song,  that  they  had  gone 
to  drink  beer  with  the  gods.  He  lived  in  a  cred- 


FRITHIOF'S  SAGA.  323 

ulous  age ;  in  the  dim  twilight  of  the  Past.  He 
was 

"  The  skylark  in  the  dawn  of  years, 
The  poet  of  the  morn." 

In  the  vast  solitudes  around  him,  "  the  heart  of 
Nature  beat  against  his  own."  From  the  midnight 
o-loom  of  groves  the  melancholy  pines  called  aloud 
to  the  neighbouring  sea.  To  his  ear  these  were  not 
the  voices  of  dead,  but  of  living  things.  Demons 
rode  the  ocean  like  a  weary  steed,  and  the  gigantic 
pines  flapped  their  jsounding  wings  to  smite  the 
^spirit  of  the  storm. 

With  this  same  baptism  has  the  soul  of  the 
modern  Scald  been  baptized.  He  dwells  in  that 
land  where  the  sound  of  the  sea  and  the  midnight 
storm  are  the  voices  of  tradition,  and  the  great 
forests  beckon  to  him,  and  in  mournful  accents 
seem  to  say,  "Why  hast  thou  tarried  so  long?" 
They  have  not  spoken  in  vain.  In  this  spirit  the 
poem  has  been  written,  and  in  this  spirit  it  must 
be  read.  We  must  visit,  in  imagination  at  least, 
that  distant  land,  and  converse  with  the  Genius  of 
the  place.  *  It  points  us  to  the  great  mounds,  which 
are  the  tombs  of  kings.  Their  bones  are  within ; 
skeletons  of  warriors  mounted  on  the  skeletons  of 
their  steeds ;  and  Vikings  sitting  gaunt  and  grim 
on  the  plankless  ribs  of  their  pirate  ships.  There 
is  a  wooden  statue  in  the  Cathedral  of  Upsala.  It 
is  an  image  of  the  god  Thor,  who  in  Valhalla  holds' 


324  FRITIIIOF'S  SAGA. 

seven  stars  in  his  hand,  and  Charles's  Wain.*  In 
the  village  of  Gamla  Upsala  there  is  an  ancient 
church.  It  was  once  a  temple,  in  which  the  gods 
of  the  old  mythology  were  worshipped.  In  every 
mysterious  sound  that  fills  the  air,  the  peasant  still 
hears  the  trampling  of  Odin's  steed,  which  many 
centuries  ago  took  fright  at  the  sound  of  a  church 
bell.  The  memory  of  Balder  is  still  preserved  in 
the  flower  that  bears  his  name,  and  Freja's  spinning- 
wheel  still  glimmers  in  the  stars  of  the  constellation 
Orion.  The  sound  of  Stromkarl's  llute  is  heard  in 
tinkling  brooks,  and  his  song  in  waterfalls.  In  the 
forest,  the  Skogsfrun,  of  wondrous  beauty,  leads 
young  men  astray ;  and  Tomtgubbe  hammers  and 
pounds  away,  all  night  long,  at  the  peasant's  un 
finished  cottage. 

Almost  primeval  simplicity  reigns  over  this 
Northern  land, — almost  primeval  solitude  and  still 
ness.  You  pass  out  from  the  gate  of  the  city,  and, 
as  if  by  magic,  the  scene  changes  to  a  wild,  wood 
land  landscape.  Around  you  are  forests  of  fir. 
Overhead  hang  the  long,  fan-like  branches,  trailing 
with  moss,  and  heavy  with  red  and  blue  cones. 
Under  foot  is  a  carpet  of  yellow  leaves,  and  the  air 
is  warm  and  balmy.  On  a  wooden  bridge  you 
2ross  a  little  silver  stream.  Anon  you  come  forth 
Into  a  pleasant  and  sunny  land  of  farms.  Wooden 


•  Thor  Gudh  war  hb;sten  aff  them 
Han  satt  nakcn  som  ett  Barn 
Siv  stiernor  i  handen  och  Karlewagn. 

Old  Swedish  RJiymt-Chronick. 


FRITHIOF'S  SAGA.  325 

fences  divide  the  adjoining  fields.  Across  the  road 
are  gates,  which  are  opened  for  you  by  troops  of 
flaxen-haired  children.  The  peasants  take  off 
their  hats  as  you  pass.  You  sneeze,  and  they  cry, 
"  God  bless  you  ! "  The  houses  in  the  villages  and 
smaller  cities  are  all  built  of  hewn  timber,  and  for 
the  most  part  painted  red.  The  floors  of  the 
taverns  are  strewn  with  the  fragrant  tips  of  fir- 
boughs.  In  many  villages  there  are  no  taverns, 
and  the  peasants  take  turns  in  receiving  travellers. 
The  thrifty  housewife  shows  you  into  the  best 
chamber,  the  walls  of  which  are  hung  round  with 
rude  pictures  from  the  Bible ;  and  brings  you  her 
heavy  silver  spoons — an  heirloom — to  dip  the  cur 
dled  milk  from  the  pan.  You  have  oaten  cakes 
baked  some  months  before ;  or  bread  with  anise- 
seed  and  coriander  in  it,  and  perhaps  a  little  pine 
bark.* 

Meanwhile  the  sturdy  husband  has  brought  his 
horses  from  the  plough,  and  harnessed  them  to 
your  carriage.  Solitary  travellers  come  and  go  in 
uncouth  one-horse  chaises.  Most  of  them  have 
pipes  in  their  mouths,  and,  hanging  around  their 

*  Speaking  of  Dalekarlia,  a  Swedish  writer  says :  "  In  the 
poorer  parishes  the  inhabitants  are  forced,  even  in  good  years, 
to  mingle  some  bark  in  their  bread."  Of  Elfdalen  he  says: 
"The  people  are  poor;  without  bark-bread  they  could  not  live 
the  year  out.  The  traveller  who  visits  these  regions,  and  sees 
by  the  road-side  long  rows  of  young  pines  stripped  of  their  bark, 
in  answer  to  his  question  wherefore  this  is  so,  hoars,  and  truly 
not  without  emotion,  his  postilion's  reply:  '  To  make  bread  for 
ourselves  and  for  our  children.'  " 


326  FRITIIIOF'S  SAGA. 

necks  in  front,  a  leathern  wallet,  wherein  they 
carry  tobacco,  and  the  great  bank-notes  of  the 
country,  as  large  as  your  two  hands.  You  meet, 
also,  groups  of  Dalekarlian  peasant- women,  trav 
elling  homeward  or  city-ward  in  pursuit  of  work. 
They  walk  barefoot,  carrying  in  their  hands  their 
shoes,  which  have  high  heels  under  the  hollow  of 
the  foot,  and  the  soles  of  birch-bark. 

Frequent,  too,  are  the  village  churches  standing 
by  the  road-side,  each  in  its  own  little  garden  of 
Gethsemane.  In  the  parish  register  great  events 
are  doubtless  recorded.  Some  old  king  was  christ 
ened  or  buried  in  that  church ;  and  a  little  sexton, 
with  a  great  rusty  key,  shows  you  the  baptismal 
font,  or  the  coffin.  In  the  churchyard  are  a  few 
flowers  and  much  green  grass ;  and  daily  the 
shadow  of  the  church  spire,  with  its  long,  tapering 
finger,  counts  the  tombs,  thus  representing  an  in 
dex  of  human  life,  on  which  the  hours  and  minutes 
are  the  graves  of  men.  The  stones  are  flat,  and 
large,  and  low,  and  perhaps  sunken,  like  the  roofs 
of  old  houses.  On  some  are  armorial  bearings ; 
on  others,  only  the  initials  of  the  poor  tenants,  with 
a  date,  as  on  the  roofs  of  Dutch  cottages.  They 
all  sleep  with  their  heads  to  the  westward.  Each 
held  a  lighted  taper  in  his  hand  when  he  died ;  and 
in  his  coffin  were  placed  his  little  heart-treasures, 
and  a  piece  of  money  for  his  last  journey.  Babes 
that  came  lifeless  into  the  world  were  carried  in 
the  arms  of  gray-haired  old  men  to  the  only  cradle 
they  ever  slept  in  ;  and  in  the  shroud  of  the  dead 


FRITHIOF'S  SAGA.  327 

mother  were  laid  the  little  garments  of  the  child 
that  lived  and  died  in  her  bosom.  And  over  this 
scene  the  village  pastor  looks  from  his  window  in 
the  stillness  of  midnight,  and  says  in  his  heart, 
"  How  quietly  they  rest,  all  the  departed  ! " 

Near  the  churchyard  gate  stands  a  poor-box, 
fastened  to  a  post  by  iron  bands,  and  secured  by  a 
padlock,  with  a  sloping  wooden  roof  to  keep  off' 
the  rain.  If  it  be  Sunday,  the  peasants  sit  on  the 
church  steps  and  con  their  psalm-books.  Others 
are  coming  down  the  road  with  their  beloved 
pastor,  who  talks  to  them  of  holy  things  from 
beneath  his  broad-brimmed  hat.  He  speaks  of 
fields  and  harvests,  and  of  the  parable  of  the  sower 
that  went  forth  to  sow.  He  leads  them  to  the 
Good  Shepherd,  and  to  the  pleasant  pastures  of 
the  spirit-land.  He  is  their  patriarch,  and,  like 
Melchisedek,  both  priest  and  king,  though  he  has 
no  other  throne  than  the  church  pulpit.  The 
women  carry  psalm-books  in  their  hands,  wrapped 
in  silk  handkerchiefs,  and  listen  devoutly  to  the 
good  man's  words.  But  the  young  men,  like 
Gallio,  care  for  none  of  these  things.  They  are 
busy  counting  the  plaits  in  the  kirtles  of  the 
peasant-girls,  their  number  being  an  indication  of 
the  wearer's  wealth.  It  may  end  in  a  wedding. 

I  must  describe  a  village  wedding  in  Sweden. 
It  shall  be  in  summer  time,  that  there  may  be 
flowers,  and  in  a  southern  province,  that  the  bride 
may  be  fair.  The  early  song  of  the  lark  and  of 
chanticleer  are  mingling  in  the  clear  morning  air, 


328  FRITIIIOF'S  SAGA. 

and  the  sun,  the  heavenly  bridegroom  with  golden 
locks,  arises  in  the  east,  just  as  Olof  Olofsson,  our 
earthly  bridegroom  with  yellow  hair,  arises  in  the 
south.  In  the  yard  there  is  a  sound  of  voices  and 
trampling  of  hoofs,  and  horses  are  led  forth  and 
saddled.  The  steed  that  is  to  bear  the  bridegroom 
has  a  bunch  of  flowers  upon  his  forehead,  and  a 
garland  of  corn-flowers  around  his  neck.  Friends 
from  the  neighbouring  farms  come  riding  in,  their 
blue  cloaks  streaming  to  the  wind ;  and  finally  the 
happy  bridegroom,  with  a  whip  in  his  hand,  and  a 
monstrous  nosegay  in  the  breast  of  his  black  jacket, 
comes  forth  from  his  chamber ;  and  then  to  horse 
and  away,  towards  the  village  where  the  bride 
already  sits  and  waits. 

Foremost  rides  the  Spokesman,  folio  wed  by  some 
half-dozen  village  musicians,  all  blowing  and  drum 
ming  and  fifing  away  like  mad.  Then  comes  the 
bridegroom  between  his  two  groomsmen,  and  then 
forty  or  fifty  friends  and  wedding  guests,  half  of 
them  perhaps  with  pistols  and  guns  in  their  hands. 
A  kind  of  baggage- wagon  brings  up  the  rear,  laden 
with  meat  and  drink  for  these  merry  pilgrims.  At 
the  entrance  of  every  village  stands  a  triumphal 
arch,  adorned  with  flowers  and  ribbons  and  ever 
greens ;  and  as  they,  pass  beneath  it,  the  wedding 
guests  fire  a  salute,  and  the  whole  procession  stops. 
And  straight  from  every  pocket  flies  a  black-jack, 
filled  with  punch  or  brandy.  It  is  passed  from 
hand  to  hand  among  the  crowd ;  provisions  are 
brought  from  the  wagon  of  the  sumpter  horse,  and 


FRITHIOF'S  SAGA.  329 

after  eating  and  drinking  and  loud  hurrahs,  the 
procession  moves  forward  again,  and  at  length 
draws  near  the  house  of  the  bride.  Four  heralds 
ride  forward  to  announce  that  a  knight  and  his 
attendants  are  in  the  neighbouring  forest,  and  pray 
for  hospitality.  "  How  many  are  you  ?  "  asks  the 
bride's  father.  "  At  least  three  hundred,"  is  the 
answer;  and  to  this  the  host  replies,  "Yes;  were 
you  seven  times  as  many,  you  should  all  be  wel 
come;  and  in  token  thereof  receive  this  cup." 
Whereupon  each  herald  receives  a  can  of  ale,  and 
soon  after  the  whole  jovial  company  come  storming 
into  the  fanner's  yard,  and,  riding  round  the  May 
pole,  which  stands  in  the  centre,  alight  amid  a 
grand  salute  and  flourish  of  music. 

In  the  hall  sits  the  bride,  with  a  crown  upon  her 
head  and  a  tear  in  her  eye,  like  the  Virgin  Mary 
in  old  church  paintings.  She  is  dressed  in  a  red 
bodice  and  kirtle,  with  loose  linen  sleeves.  There 
is  a  gilded  belt  around  her  waist ;  and  around  her 
neck,  strings  of  golden  beads  and  a  golden  chain. 
On  the  crown  rests  a  wreath  of  wild  roses,  and  be 
low  it  another  of  cypress.  Loose  over  her  shoulders 
falls  her  flaxen  hair;  and  her  blue,  innocent  eyes 
are  fixed  upon  the  ground.  i/O  thou  good  soul ! 
thou  hast  hard  hands,  but  a  soft  heart !  Thou  art 
poor.  The  very  ornaments  thou  wearest  are  nol 
thine.  They  have  been  hired  for  this  great  day. 
Yet  art  thou  rich ;  rich  in  health,  rich  in  hope,  rich 
in  thy  first,  young,  fervent  love.  The  blessing  of 
Heaven  be  upon  thee !  So  thinks  the  parish  priest, 


830  FRITIIIOF'S  SAGA. 

as  lie  joins  together  the  hands  of  bride  and  bride 
groom,  saying,  in  deep,  solemn  tones :  "  I  give  thee 
in  marriage  this  damsel,  to  be  thy  wedded  wife  in 
all  honor,  and  to  share  the  half  of  thy  bed,  thy  lock 
and  key,  and  every  third  penny  Avhich  you  two  may 
possess,  or  may  inherit,  and  all  the  rights  which 
Upland's  laws  provide,  and  the  holy  king  Erik  gave." 
The  dinner  is  now  served,  and  the  bride  sits  be 
tween  the  bridegroom  and  the  priest.  The  ^pokes- 
man  delivers  an  oration,  after  the  ancient  custom 
of  his  fathers.  He  interlards  it  well  with  quota 
tions  from  the  Bible ;  and  invites  the  Saviour  to 
be  present  at  this  marriage  feast  as  he  was 
at  the  marriage  feast  in  Cana  of  Galilee.  The 
table  is  not  sparingly  set  forth.  Each  makes  a 
long  arm,  and  the  feast  goes  cheerly  on.  Punch 
and  brandy  are  served  up  between  the  courses, 
and  here  and  there  a  pipe  smoked  while  waiting 
for  the  next  dish.  They  sit  long  at  table ;  but,  as 
all  things  must  have  an  end,  so  must  a  Swedish 
dinner.  Then  the  dance  begins.  It  is  led  off  by 
the  bride  and  the  priest,  who  perform  a  solemn 
minuet  together.  Not  till  after  midnight  comes  tho 
Last  Dance.  The  girls  form  a  ring  around  tho 
bride  to  keep  her  from  the  hands  of  the  married 
women,  who  endeavour  to  break  through  the  magic 
circle  and  seize  their  new  sister.  After  long 
struggling,  they  succeed;  and  the  crown  is  taken 
from  her  head  and  the  jewels  from  her  neck,  and 
her  bodice  is  unlaced  and  her  kirtle  taken  off;  and 
like  a  vestal  virgin  clad  in  white  she  goes,  but  it  i* 


FRITHIOF'S  SAGA.  331 

to  her  marriage  chamber,  not  to  her  grave ;  and 
the  wedding  guests  follow  her  with  lighted  candles 
in  their  hands.  And  this  is  a  village  bridal. 

Nor  must  we  forget  the  sudden  changing  sea 
sons  of  the  Northern  cliine.  There  is  no  long 
and  lingering  Spring,  unfolding  leaf  and  blossom 
one  by  one ;  no  long  and  lingering  Autumn,  pom 
pous  with  many-colored  leaves  and  the  glow  of 
Indian  summers.  But  Winter  and  Summer  are 
wonderful,  and  pass  into  each  other.  The  quail 
has  hardly  ceased  piping  in  the  corn  when  Winter 
from  the  folds  of  trailing  clouds  sows  broadcast 
over  the  land  snow,  icicles,  and  rattling  hail.  The 
days  wane  apace.  Erelong  the  sun  hardly  rises 
above  the  horizon,  or  does  not  rise  at  all.  The 
moon  and  the  stars  shine  through  the  day ;  only 
at  noon  they  are  pale  and  wan,  and  in  the  south 
ern  sky  a  red,  fiery  glow,  as  of  sunset,  burns  along 
the  horizon,  and  then  goes  out.  And  pleasantly 
under  the  silver  moon,  and  under  the  .silent,  jol- 
emn  stars,  ring  the  steel  shoes  of  the  skaters  on 
the  frozen  sea,  and  voices  and  the  sound  of  bells.  / 

And  now  the  Northern  Lights  begin  to  burn, 
faintly  at  first,  like  sunbeams  playing  in  the  waters 
of  the  blue  sea.  Then  a  soft  crimson  glow  tinges, 
the  heavens.  There  is  a  blush  on  the  cheek  of 
night.  The  colors  come  and  go  ;  and  change  from 
crimson  to  gold,  from  gold  to  crimson.  The  snow 
is  stained  with  rosy  light.  Twofold  from  the  zenith, 
east  and  west,  flames  a  fiery  sword ;  and  a  broad 
band  passes  athwart  the  heavens  like  a  summer 


332  FIUTHIOF'S  SAGA. 

sunset.  Soft  purple  clouds  come  sailing  over  the 
sky,  and  through  their  vapory/folds  the  winking 
stars  shine  white  as  silverA/With  such  pomp  as 
this  is  Merry  Christmas  ushered  in,  though  only  a 
single  star  heralded  the  first  Christmas.  And  in 
memory  of  that  day  the  Swedish  peasants  dance  on 
straw ;  and  the  peasant-girls  throw  straws  at  the 
limbered  roof  of  the  hall,  and  for  every  one  that 
sticks  in  a  crack  shall  a  groomsman  come  to  their 
wedding.  Merry  Christmas  indeed !  For  pious 
souls  church  songs  shall  be  sung,  and  sermons 
preached ; — 

"  And  nil  the  bells  on  earth  shall  ring, 
And  all  the  angels  in  heaven  shall  sing, 
On  Christmas  day  in  the  morning." 

But  for  Swedish  peasants  brandy  and  nut-brown 
ale  in  wooden  bowls :  and  the  great  Yule-cake 
crowned  with  a  cheese,  and  garlanded  with  apples, 
and  upholding  a  three-armed  candlestick  over  the 
Christmas  feast.  They  may  tell  tales,  too,  of  Jons 
Lundsbracka,  and  Lunkcnfus,  and  the  great  Rid- 
dar  Finke  of  Pingsdaga.* 

And  now  the  glad,  leafy  midsummer,  full  of 
blossoms  and  the  song  of  nightingales,  is  come 
Saint  John  has  taken  the  flowers  and  festival  of 
heathen  Balder;  and  in  every  village  there  is  a 
May-pole  fifty  feet  high,  with  wreaths  and  roses 
and  ribbons  streaming  in  the  wind,  and  a  noisy 

*  Titles  of  Swedish  popular  talcs. 


FRITUIOF'S  SAGA.  333 

weathercock  on  top,  to  tell  the  village  whence  the 
wind  cometh  and  whither  it  goctli.  The  sun  does 
not  set  till  ten  o'clock  at  night ;  and  the  children 
are  at  play  in  the  streets  an  hour  later.  The  win 
dows  and  doors  are  all  open,  and  you  may  sit  and 
read  till  midnight  without  a  candle.  O,  how  beauti 
ful  is  the  summer  night,  which  is  not  night,  but  a 
sunless  yet  unclouded  day,  descending  upon  earth 
with  dews,  and  shadows,  and  refreshing  coolness  ! 
How  beautiful  the  long,  mild  twilight,  which  like  a 
silver  clasp  unites  to-day  with  yesterday  !  How 
beautiful  the  silent  hour,  when  Morning  and  Even 
ing  thus  sit  together,  hand  in  hand,  beneath  the 
starless  sky  of  midnight !  From  the  church  tower 
in  the  public  square  the  bell  tolls  the  hour,  with  a 
soft,  musical  chime ;  and  the  watchman,  whose 
watch-tower  is  the  belfry,  blows  a  blast  in  his  horn 
for  each  stroke  of  the  hammer,  and  four  times  to 
the  four  corners  of  the  heavens,  in  a  sonorous  voice, 
he  chants  • — 

"  Ho !  watchman,  ho ! 
Twelve  is  the  clock ! 
God  keep  our  town 
From  fire  and  brand, 
From  the  foe's  hand ! 
Twelve  is  the  clock !  " 

From  his  swallow's  nest  in  the  belfry  he  can  see 
the  sun  all  night  long ;  and  further  north  the  priest 
stands  at  his  door  in  the  warm  midnight,  and  lighti 
his  pipe  with  a  common  burning-glass. 


334  FRITHIOF'S  SAGA. 

And  all  this  while  the  good  Bishop  of  Wexio  is 
waiting,  with  his  poem  in  his  hand.  And  such  a 
poem,  too  !  Alas  !  I  am  but  too  well  aware,  that  a 
brief  analysis  and  a  few  scattered  extracts  can  give 
only  a  faint  idea  of  the  original,  and  that  conse 
quently  the  admiration  of  my  readers  will  probably 
lag  somewhat  behind  my  own.  If  the  poem  itself 
should  ever  fall  into  their  hands,  I  hope  that  the 
foregoing  remarks  on  Sweden,  which  now  may  seem 
to  them  a  useless  digression,  will,  nevertheless, 
enable  them  to  enter  more  easily  into  the  spirit  of 
the  poem,  and  to  feel  more  truly  the  influences 
under  which  it  was  written. 

The  first  canto  describes  the  childhood  and  youth 
of  Frithiof  and  Ingeborg  the  fair,  as  they  grew  up 
together  under  the  humble  roof  of  Hilding,  their 
foster-father.  They  are  two  plants  in  the  old  man's 
garden ; — a  young  oak,  whose  stem  is  like  a  lance, 
and  whose  leafy  top  is  rounded  like  a  helm ;  and  a 
rose,  in  whose  folded  buds  the  Spring  still  sleeps 
and  dreams.  But  the  storm  comes,  and  the  young 
oak  must  wrestle  with  it ;  the  sun  of  Spring  shines 
warm  in  heaven,  and  the  red  lips  of  the  rose  open, 
The  sports  of  their  childhood  are  described.  They 
sail  together  on  the  deep  blue  sea ;  and  when  hb 
shifts  the  sail,  she  claps  her  small  white  hands  in 
glee.  For  her  he  plunders  the  highest  bird's-nests, 
and  the  eagle's  eyry,  and  bears  her  through  the 
rushing  mountain  brook,  it  is  so  sweet,  when 
the  torrent  roars  to  be  pressed  by  small  white 
arms. 


FRITHIOF'S  SAGA.  335 

But  childhood  and  the  sports  thereof  soon  pass 
away,  and  Frithiof  becomes  a  mighty  hunter.  He 
fights  the  bear  without  spear  or  sword,  and  lays 
the  conquered  monarch  of  the  forest  at  the  feet 
of  Ingeborg.  And  when,  by  the  light  of  the 
winter-evening  hearth,  he  reads  the  glorious  songs 
of  Valhalla,  no  goddess,  whose  beauty  is  there 
celebrated,  can  compare  with  Ingeborg.  Freya's 
golden  hair  may  wave  like  a  wheat-field  in  the 
wind,  but  Ingcborg's  is  a  net  of  gold  around  roses 
and  lilies.  Iduna's  bosom  throbs  full  and  fair 
beneath  her  silken  vest,  but  beneath  the  silken 
vest  of  Ingeborg  two  Elves  of  Light  leap  up  with 
rose-buds  in  their  hands.  And  she  embroiders  in 
gold  and  silver  the  wondrous  deeds  of  heroes ; 
and  the  face  of  every  champion  that  looks  up  at 
her  from  the  woof  she  is  weaving  is  the  face  of 
Frithiof ;  and  she  blushes  and  is  glad  ; — that  is  to 
say,  they  love  each  other  a  little.  Ancient  Hild- 
ing  does  not  favor  their  passion,  but  tells  his  foster- 
son  that  the  maiden  is  the  daughter  of  King  Bele, 
and  he  but  the  son  of  Thorsten  Vikingsson,  a 
thane  ;  he  should  not  aspire  to  the  love  of  one  who 
has  descended  in  a  long  line  of  ancestors  from  the 
star-clear  hall  of  Odin  himself.  Frithiof  smiles  in 
scorn,  and  replies  that  he  has  slain  the  shaggy 
king  of  the  forest,  and  inherits  his  ancestors  with 
his  hide ;  and  moreover  that  he  will  possess  his 
bride,  his  white  lily,  in  spite  of  the  very  god 
of  thunder ;  for  a  puissant  wooer  is  the  sword. 

Thus  closes  the  first  canto.     In  the  second,  old 


336  FIUTIIIOF'S  SAGA. 

King  Belc  stands  leaning  on  his  sword  in  his  hall, 
and  with  him  is  his  faithful  brother  in  arras, 
Thorsten  Vikingsson,  the  father  of  Frithiof,  silver- 
haired,  and  scarred  like  a  runic  stone.  The  king 
complains  that  the  evening  of  his  days  is  drawing 
near,  that  the  mead  is  no  longer  pleasant  to  his 
taste,  and  that  his  helmet  weighs  heavily  upon  his 
brow.  lie  feels  the  approach  of  death.  Therefore 
he  summons  to  his  presence  his  two  sons,  Helge 
and  Halfdan,  and  with  them  Frithiof,  that  he  may 
give  a  warning  to  the  young  eagles  before  the 
words  slumber  on  the  dead  man's  tongue.  Fore 
most  advances  Ilelgc,  a  grim  and  gloomy  figure, 
who  loves  to  dwell  among  the  priests  and  before 
the  altars,  and  now  comes,  with  blood  upon  his 
hands,  from  the  groves  of  sacrifice.  And  next  to 
him  approaches  Halfdan,  a  boy  with  locks  of  light, 
and  so  gentle  in  his  mien  and  bearing  that  he 
seems  a  maiden  in  disguise.  And  after  these, 
wrapped  in  his  mantle  blue,  and  a  head  taller  than 
'  either,  comes  Frithiof,  and  stands  between  the 
,  brothers,  like  midday  between  the  rosy  morning 
('  and  the  shadowy  night.  Then  speaks  the  king, 
and  tells  the  young  eaglets  that  his  sun  is  going 
down,  and  that  they  must  rule  his  realm  after 
him  in  harmony  and  brotherly  love ;  that  the 
sword  was  given  for  defence  and  not  for  oflence ; 
that  the  shield  was  forged  as  a  padlock  for  the 
peasant's  barn;  and  that  they  should  not  glory 
in  their  fathers'  honors,  as  each  can  bear  his  own 
only.  If  we  cannot  bend  the  bow,  he  says,  it  is 


FRITHIOF'S  SAGA.  887 

not  ours;  what  have  we  to  do  with  worth  that 
is  buried  ?  The  mighty  stream  goes  into  the  sea 
with  its  own  waves.  These,  and  many  other  wise 
sayings,  fall  from  the  old  man's  dying  lips ;  and 
then  Thorsten  Vikingsson,  who  means  to  die  with 
his  king  as  he  has  lived  with  him,  arises  and 
addresses  his  son  Frithiof.  He  tells  him  that  old 
age  has  whispered  many  warnings  in  his  ear, 
which  he  will  repeat  to  him;  for  as  the  birds 
of  Odin  descend  upon  the  sepulchres  of  the  North, 
so  words  of  manifold  wisdom  descend  upon  the 
lips  of  the  old.  Then  follows  much  sage  advice  ; — 
that  he  should  serve  his  king,  for  one  alone  shall 
reign, — the  dark  Night  has  many  eyes,  but  the 
Day  has  only  one  ;  that  he  should  not  praise  the 
day  until  the  sun  had  set,  nor  his  beer  until  he 
had  drunk  it ;  that  he  should  not  trust  to  ice  but 
one  night  old,  nor  snow  in  spring,  nor  a  sleeping 
snake,  nor  the  words  of  a  maiden  on  his  knee, — 
sagacious  hints  from  the  High  Song  of  Odin. 
Then  the  old  men  speak  together  of  their  long- 
tried  friendship ;  and  the  king  praises  the  valor 
and  heroic  strength  of  Frithiof,  and  Thorsten  has 
much  to  say  of  the  glory  which  crowns  the  Kings 
of  the  North-land,  the  sons  of  the  gods.  Then 
the  king  speaks  to  his  sons  again,  and  bids  them 
greet  his  daughter,  the  rose-bud.  In  retirement, 
says  he,  as  it  behoved  her,  has  she  grown  up  ; 
protect  her ;  let  not  the  storm  come  and  fix  upon 
his  helmet  my  delicate  flower.  And  he  bids  them 
bury  him  and  his  ancient  friend  by  the  seaside, — 
VOL.  I.  22 


538  FRITIIIOF'S  SAGA. 

by  the  billow  blue,  for  its  song  is  pleasant  to  the 
spirit  evermore,  and  like  a  funeral  dirge  ring  its 
blows  against  the  strand. 

And  now  King  Bele  and  Tliorsten  Vikingsson 
are  gathered  to  their  fathers ;  Helge  and  Halfdan 
share  the  throne  between  them,  and  Frithiof 
retires  to  his  ancestral  estate  at  Framniis  ;  of 
which  a  description  is  given  in  the  third  canto, 
conceived  and  executed  in  a  truly  Homeric  spirit 

M  Three  miles  extended  around  the  fields  of  the  home 
stead,  on  three  sides 

Valleys  and  mountains  and  hills,  but  on  the  fourth  side 
was  the  ocean. 

ttirch  woods  crowned  the  summits,  but  down  the  slope 
of  the  hill-sides 

Flourished  the  golden  corn,  and  man-high  was  waving 
the  rye-field. 

Lakes,  full  many  in  number,  their  mirror  held  up  for 
the  mountains, 

Held  for  the  forests  up,  in  whose  depths  the  high-honied 
reindeers 

Had  their  kingly  walk,  and  drank  of  a  hundred  brook 
lets. 

J'.ut  in  the  valleys  full  widely  around,  there  fed  on  the 
greensward 

Herds  with  shining  hide*  and  udders  that  longed  for  the 
milk-pail. 

Mid  these  scattered,  now  here  and  now  there,  were 
numberless  flocks  of 

Sheep  with  fleeces  white,  as  thou  seest  the  white-looking 
stray  clouds, 

Flock-wise  spread  o'er  the  heavenly  vault,  when  ii 
blowelh  in  spring-time. 


FKITHIOF'S  SAGA.  339 

Coursers  two  times  twelve,  all  mettlesome,  fast- fettered 

storm-winds, 
Stamping  stood  in  the  line  of  stalls,  and  tugged  at  their 

fodder, 
Knotted  with  red  were  their  manes,  and  their  hoofs  s 

white  with  steel  shoes. 
Th'  banquet-hall,  a  house  by  itself,  was  timbered  of  hard 

fir. 
Not  five  hundred  men  (at    ten  times    twelve    to    the 

hundred)  * 
Filled  up  the  roomy  hall,  when  assembled  for  drinking  at 

Yule-tide. 
Thoi'ough  the  hall,  as  long  as  it  was,  went  a  table  of 

holm-oak, 
Polished  and  white,  as  of  steel ;  the  columns  twain  of  the 

High-seat 
Stood  at  the  end  thereof,  two   gods  carved  out  of  an 

elm-tree ; 
Odin  f  with  lordly  look,  and  Frey  J  with  the  sun  on  his 

frontlet. 
Lately  between  the  two,  on  a  bear-skin,  (the  skin  it  was 

coal-black, 
Scarlet-red  was  the  throat,  but  the  paws  were  shodden 

with  silver,) 
Thorsten  sat  with   his  friends,  Hospitality  sitting  with 

Gladness. 
Oft,  when  tho  moon  through  the  cloud-rack  flew,  related 

the  old  man 
Wonders  from  distant  lands  he  had  seen,  and  cruises  cf 

Vikings  || 


*An  old  fashion  of  reckoning  in  the  North. 
tOdin,  the  All-father;    the   Jupiter    of  Scandinavian   my 
\hology. 

JFrey,  the  god  of  Fertility;  the  Bacchus  of  the  North. 
0  The  old  pirates  of  the  North. 


840  FRITHIOF'S  SAGA. 

Far  away  on  the  Baltic,  and  Sea  of  the  West,  and  the 

White  Sea. 
Hushed  sat  the  listening  bench,  and  their  glances  hung 

on  the  gray  beard' s 
Lips,  as  a  bee  on  the  rose;  but  the  Skald  was  thinking 

of  Bragc,  * 
Where,  with  his  silver  beard,  and  runes  on  his  tongue, 

he  is  seated 

Under  the  leafy  beach,  and  tells  a  tradition  by  Mimer's  t 
Ever-murmuring  wave,  himself  a  living  tradition. 
Mid-way  the  floor  (with  thatch  was  it  strewn)  burned 

ever  the  fire-flame 

Glad  on  its  stone-built  hearth;  and  thorough  the  wide- 
mouthed  smoke-flue 
Looked  the  stars,  those  heavenly  friends,  down  into  the 

great  hall. 
But  round  the  walls,  upon  nails  of  steel,  were  hanging 

in  order 
Breastplate  and   helmet   together,  and  here   and   there 

among  them 
Downward  lightened  a  sword,  as  in  winter  evening  a 

star  shoots. 
More  than  helmets  and  swords  the  shields  in  the  hall 

were  resplendent, 
White  as  the  orb  of   the  sun,  or  white  as  the  moon'* 

disc  of  silver. 
Ever  and  anon  went  a  maid  round  the  board,  and  filled 

up  the  drink-horns, 
Ever  she  cast  down  her  eyes  and  blushed;  in  the  shield 

her  reflection 
Blushed,  too,  even  as  she;  this  gladdened  the  drinking 

champions." 


•Bragc,  the  god  of  Song;  the  Scandinavian  Apollo. 
fMimer,  the  Glint,  who  possessed  the  Wo"  of  Wisdom,  undei 
one  of  the  roots  of  the  Ash  IgJnsil. 


FKITIIIOF'S  SAGA.  341 

Among  the  treasures  of  Frithiof's  house  are 
three  of  transcendent  worth.  The  first  of  these 
is  the  sword  Angurvadel,  brother  of  the  lightning, 
handed  down  from  generation  to  generation,  since 
the  days  of  Bjorn  Blatand,  the  Blue-toothed  Bear. 
The  hilt  thereof  was  of  beaten  gold,  and  on  the 
blade  were  wondrous  runes,  known  only  at  the 
gates  of  the  sun.  In  peace  these  runes  were  dull, 
but  in  time  of  war  they  burned  red  as  the  comb 
of  a  cock  when  he  fights  ;  and  lost  was  he  who  in 
the  night  of  slaughter  met  the  sword  of  the  flaming 
runes  ! 

The  second  in  price  is  an  arm-ring  of  pure 
gold,  made  by  Vaulund,  the  limping  Yulcan  of 
the  North ;  and  containing  upon  its  border  the 
signs  of  the  zodiac, — the  Houses  of  the  Twelve 
Immortals.  This  ring  had  been  handed  down  in 
the  family  of  Frithiof  from  the  days  when  it  came 
from  the  hands  of  Vaulund,  the  founder  of  the 
race.  It  was  once  stolen  and  carried  to  England 
by  Viking  Sote,  who  there  buried  himself  alive  in 
a  vast  tomb,  and  with  him  his  pirate-ship  and  aU 
his  treasures.  King  Bele  and  Thorsten  pursue 
him,  and  through  a  crevice  of  the  door  look  into 
the  tomb,  where  they  behold  the  ship,  with  anchor 
and  masts  and  spars ;  and  on  the  deck,  a  fearful 
figure,  clad  in  a  mantle  of  flame,  sits,  gloomily 
scouring  a  blood-stained  sword.  The  ring  is  upon 
his  arm.  Thorsten  bursts  the  doors  of  the  great 
tomb  asunder  with  his  lance,  and,  entering,  does 


842  FRITHIOF'S  SAGA. 

battle  with  the  grim  spirit,  and  bears  home  the 
ring  as  a  trophy  of  his  victory.* 

The  third  great  treasure  of  the  house  of  Frithiof 
is  the  dragon-ship  Ellida.  It  was  given  to  one 
of  Frithiof 's  ancestors  by  a  sea-god,  whom  this 
ancestor  saved  from  drowning,  somewhat  as  St. 
Christopher  did  the  angel.  The  ancient  mariner 
was  homeward  bound,  when  at  a  distance  on  the 
wreck  of  a  ship  he  espied  an  old  man  with  sea- 
green  locks,  a  beard  white  as  the  foam  of  waves, 
and  a  face  which  smiled  like  the  sea  when  it  plays 
in  sunshine.  Viking  takes  this  Old  Man  of  the  Sea 
home  with  him,  and  entertains  him  in  hospitable 
guise ;  but  at  bed-time  the  green-haired  guest, 
instead  of  going  quietly  to  his  rest  like  a  Christian 
man,  sets  sail  again  on  his  wreck,  like  a  hobgoblin, 
having,  as  he  says,  a  hundred  miles  to  go  that 
night,  at  the  same  time  telling  the  Viking  to  look 
the  next  morning  on  the  sea-shore  for  a  gift 
of  thanks.  And  the  next  morning,  behold !  the 
dragon-ship  Ellida  comes  sailing  up  the  harbor, 
like  a  phantom  ship,  with  all  her  sails  set,  and  not 
a  man  on  board.  Her  prow  is  a  dragon's  head, 
with  jaws  of  gold ;  her  stern,  a  dragon's  tail,  twisted 
and  scaly  with  silver;  her  wings  black,  tipped 
with  red  ;  and  when  she  spreads  them  all,  she  flies 
a  race  with  the  roaring  storm,  and  the  eagle  is  left 
behind. 

*  Not  unlike  the  old  tradition  of  the  ring  of  Oygca ;  which 
was  found  on  a  dead  man's  finger  in  the  flank  of  a  brazen  horse, 
deep  buried  iii  a  cliasin  of  the  earth. 


FRITHIOF'S  SAGA.  343 

These  were  Frithiof's  treasures,  renowned  in 
the  North ;  and  thus  in  his  hall,  with  Bjorn,  his 
bosom  friend,  he  sat,  surrounded  by  his  champions 
twelve,  with  breasts  of  steel  and  furrowed  brows, 
the  comrades  of  his  father,  and  all  the  guests  tnat 
had  gathered  together  to  pay  the  funeral  rites  to 
Thorsten,  the  son  of  Viking.  And  Frithiof,  with 
eyes  full  of  tears,  drank  to  his  father's  memory, 
and  heard  the  song  of  the  Scalds,  a  dirge  of 
thunder. 

Frithiof's  Courtship  is  the  title  of  the  fourth 
canto. 

"  High  sounded  the  song  in  Frithiof's  hall, 
And  the  Scalds  they  praised  his  fathers  all; 
But  the  song  rejoices 
Not  Frithiof,  he  hears  not  the  Scalds'  loud  voices. 

"And  the  earth  has  clad  itself  green  again, 
And  the  dragons  swim  once  more  on  the  main, 
But  the  hero's  son 
He  wanders  in  woods,  and  looks  at  the  moon." 

He  had  lately  made  a  banquet  for  Helge  and 
Halfdan,  and  sat  beside  Ingeborg  the  fair,  and 
spoke  with  her  of  those  early  days  when  the  dew 
of  morning  still  lay  upon  life ;  of  the  reminiscences 
of  childhood  ;  their  names  carved  in  the  birch-tree's 
bark;  the  well-known  valley  and  woodland,  anrl 
the  hill  where  the  great  oaks  grew  from  the  dust 
of  heroes.  And  now  the  banquet  closes,  and 
Frithiof  remains  at  his  homestead  to  pass  his  days 
in  idleness  and  dreams.  But  this  strange  mood 
pleases  not  his  friend  the  Bear. 


344  FRITHIOF'S  SAGA. 

"  It  pleased  not  Bjorn  these  things  to  see: 
1  What  nils  the  young  eagle  now,'  said  he, 
'  So  still,  so  oppressed? 

Have  they  plucked  his  wings?  have  they  pierced  hii 
breast  ? 

" '  What  wilt  thou?    Have  we  not  more  than  we  need 

Of  the  yellow  lard  and  the  nut-brown  mead? 

And  of  Scalds  a  throng? 

There's  never  an  end  to  their  ballads  long. 

" '  True  enough,  the  coxirsers  stamp  in  their  stall, 
Tor  pvey,  for  prey,  scream  the  falcons  all ; 
But  Frithiof  only 
Hunts  in  the  clouds,  and  weeps  so  lonely.' 

***** 
"Then  Frithiof  set  the  dragon  free, 
And  the  sails  swelled  full,  and  snorted  the  sea. 
Right  over  the  bay 
To  the  sons  of  the  King  he  steered  his  way." 

He  finds  them  at  the  grave  of  their  father,  King 
Bele,  giving  audience  to  the  people,  and  promul 
gating  laws,  and  he  boldly  asks  the  hand  of  theii 
sister  Ingeborg,  this  alliance  being  in  accordance 
with  the  wishes  of  King  Bele.  To  this  proposition 
Ilelgc  answers,  in  scorn,  that  his  sister's  hand  is 
not  for  the  son  of  a  thane ;  that  he  needs  not  the 
sword  of  Frithiof  to  protect  his  throne,  but  if  he 
will  be  his  serf,  there  is  a  place  vacant  among  the 
house-folk  which  he  can  fill.  Indignant  at  this 
reply,  Frithiof  draws  his  sword  of  the  flaming 
runes,  and  at  one  blow  cleaves  in  twain  the  golden 
shield  of  Ilelge  as  it  hangs  on  a  tree,  and,  turning 


FRITHIOF'S  SAGA.  345 

away  in  disdain,  departs  over  the  blue  sea  home 
ward. 

In  the  next  canto  the  scene  changes.  Old  King 
Ring  pushes  back  his  golden  chair  from  the  table, 
and  arises  to  speak  to  his  heroes  and  Scalds, — old 
King  Ring,  a  monarch  renowned  in  the  North,  be 
loved  by  all  as  a  father  to  the  land  he  governs, 
and  whose  name  each  night  goes  up  to  Odin  with 
the  prayers  of  his  people.  He  announces  to  them 
his  intention  of  taking  to  himself  a  new  queen  as  a 
mother  to  his  infant  son,  and  tells  them  he  has 
fixed  his  choice  upon  Ingeborg,  the  lily  small,  with 
the  blush  of  morn  on  her  cheeks.  Messengers 
are  forthwith  sent  to  Helge  and  Halfdan,  bearing 
golden  gifts,  and  attended  by  a  long  train  of  Scalds, 
who  sing  heroic  ballads  to  the  sound  of  their  harps. 
Three  days  and  three  nights  they  revel  at  the 
court;  and  on  the  fourth  morning  receive  from 
Helge  a  solemn  refusal  and  from  Halfdan  a  taunt, 
that  King  Graybcard  should  ride  forth  in  person 
to  seek  his  bride.  Old  King  Ring  is  wroth  at  the 
reply,  and  straightway  prepares  to  avenge  his 
wounded  pride  with  his  sword.  He  smites  his 
shield  as  it  hangs  on  the  bough  of  the  high  linden- 
tree,  and  the  dragons  swim  forth  on  the  waves 
with  blood-red  combs,  and  the  helms  nod  in  the 
wind.  The  sound  of  the  approaching  war  reaches 
the  ears  of  the  royal  brothers,  and  they  place  their 
sister  for  protection  in  the  temple  of  Balder.* 

*  Balder,  the  god  of  the  Summer  Sun. 


346  FRITHIOF'S  SAGA. 

In  the  next  canto,  which  is  the  sixth,  Frithiof 
and  Bjorn  are  playing  chess  together,  when  old 
Hilding  comes  in,  bringing  the  prayer  of  Helge 
and  Halfdan,  that  Frithiof  would  aid  them  in  the 
war  against  King  Ring.  Frithiof,  instead  of  an 
swering  the  old  man,  continues  his  game,  making 
allusions  as  it  goes  on  to  the  king's  being  saved  by 
a  peasant  or  pawn,  and  the  necessity  of  rescuing 
the  queen  at  all  hazards.  Finally,  he  tells  the 
ancient  Hilding  to  return  to  Bele's  sons  and  tell 
them  that  they  have  wounded  his  honor,  that  no 
ties  unite  them  together,  and  that  he  will  never  be 
their  bondman.  So  closes  this  short  and  very 
spirited  canto. 

The  seventh  canto  describes  the  meeting  of 
Frithiof  and  Ingeborg  in  Balder's  temple,  when 
silently  the  high  stars  stole  forth,  like  a  lover  to  his 
maid,  on  tiptoe.  Hero  all  passionate  vows  are 
retold ;  he  swears  to  protect  her  with  his  sword 
while  here  on  earth,  and  to  sit  by  her  side  here 
after  in  Valhalla,  when  the  champions  ride  forth 
to  battle  from  the  silver  gates,  and  maidens  bear 
round  the  mead-horn  mantled  with  golden  foam. 

The  eighth  canto  commences  in  this  wise.  Tnge- 
borg  sits  in  Balder's  temple,  and  waits  the  coming 
of  Frithiof,  till  the  stars  fade  away  in  the  morning 
sky.  At  length  he  arrives,  wild  and  haggard.  He 
comes  from  the  Ting,  or  council,  where  he  has 
offered  his  hand  in  reconciliation  to  King  Helge, 
and  again  asked  of  him  his  sister  in  marriage,  before 
the  assembly  of  the  warriors.  A  thousand  swords 


FRITHIOF'S  SAGA.  347 

hammered  applause  upon  a  thousand  shields,  and 
the  ancient  Hilding  with  his  silver  beard  stepped 
forth  and  held  a  talk  full  of  wisdom,  in  short,  pithy 
language,  that  sounded  like  the  blows  of  a  sword. 
But  all  in  vain.  King  Helge  says  him  nay,  and 
brings  against  him  an  accusation  of  having  pro 
faned  the  temple  of  Balder  by  daring  to  visit  Ingc- 
borg  there.  Death  or  banishment  is  the  penalty 
of  the  law  ;  but  instead  of  being  sentenced  to  the 
usual  punishment,  Frithiof  is  ordered  to  sail  to  the 
Orkney  Islands,  in  order  to  force  from  Jarl  Angan- 
tyr  the  payment  of  an  annual  tribute,  which  since 
Bele's  death  he  has  neglected  to  pay.  All  this 
does  Frithiof  relate  to  Ingeborg,  and  urges  her  to 
escape  with  him  to  the  lands  of  the  South,  where 
the  sky  is  clearer,  and  the  mild  stars  shall  look 
down  with  friendly  glance  upon  them  through  the 
warm  summer  nights.  By  the  light  of  the  winter- 
evening's  fire,  old  Thorsten  Vikingsson  had  told 
them  tales  of  the  Isles  of  Greece,  with  their  green 
groves  and  shining  billows ; — where,  amid  the 
ruins  of  marble  temples,  flowers  grow  from  the 
runes  that  utter  forth  the  wisdom  of  the  past,  and 
golder.  apples  glow  amid  the  leaves,  and  red  graphs 
hang  from  every  twig.  All  is  prepared  for  their 
flight ;  already  Ellida  spreads  her  shadowy  eagle- 
wings;  but  Ingeborg  refuses  to  escape.  King 
Bele's  daughter  will  not  deign  to  steal  her  happi 
ness.  In  a  beautiful  and  passionate  appeal,  she 
soothes  her  lover's  wounded  pride,  and  at  length 
he  resolves  to  undertake  the  expedition  to  Jail 


348  FRITIIIOF'S  SAGA. 

Angantyr.  He  gives  her  the  golden  armring  of 
Vaulundcr,  and  they  part,  she  with  mournful  fore 
bodings,  and  he  with  ardent  hope  of  ultimate  suc 
cess.  This  part  of  the  poem  is  a  dramatic  sketch 
in  blank  verse.  It  is  highly  wrought,  and  full  of 
poetic  beauties. 

Ingeborg's  Lament  is  the  subject  of  the  ninth 
canto.  She  sits  by  the  seaside,  and  watches  the 
westward-moving  sail,  and  speaks  to  the  billows 
blue,  and  the  stars,  and  to  Frithiof 's  falcon,  that 
sits  upon  her  shoulder, — the  gallant  bird  whose 
image  she  has  worked  into  her  embroidery,  with 
wings  of  silver  and  golden  claws.  She  tells  him 
to  greet  again  and  again  her  Frithiof,  when  he 
returns  and  weeps  by  her  grave. 

And  now  follows  the  ballad  of  Frithiof  at  Sea ; 
one  of  the  most  spirited  and  characteristic  cantos 
of  the  poem.  The  versification,  likewise,  is  man 
aged  with  great  skill ;  each  strophe  consisting  of 
three  several  parts,  each  in  its  respective  metre. 
King  Helgc  stands  by  the  sea-shore  and  prays  to 
the  fiends  for  a  tempest ;  and  soon  Frithiof  heara 
the  wings  of  the  storm  flapping  in  the  distance, 
and,  as  wind-cold  Ham  and  snowy  Ileid  beat 
against  the  flanks  of  his  ship,  he  sings  : — 

"  Fairer  was  the  Journey, 
In  the  moonbeam's  shimmer, 
O'er  the  mirrored  waters 
Unto  Balder's  grove; 
Warmer  than  it  here  is, 
Close  by  Ingeborg's  bosom; — 


FIVITHIOF'S  SAGA.  349 

Whiter  than  the  sea-foam 
Swelled  the  maiden's  breast." 

But  tlie  tempest  waxes  sore  ; — it  screams  in  the 
shrouds,  and  cracks  in  the  keel,  and  the  dragon- 
ship  leaps  from  wave  to  wave  like  a  goat  from  cliff  to 
cliff.  Frithiof  fears  that  witchcraft  is  at  work  ; 
and  calling  Bjb'rn,  he  bids  him  gripe  the  tiller  with 
his  bear-paw  while  he  climbs  the  mast  to  look  out 
upon  the  sea.  From  aloft  he  sees  the  two  fiends 
riding  on  a  whale  ;  Held  with  snowy  skin,  and  in 
shape  like  a  white  bear, — Ham  with  outspread, 
sounding  wings,  like  the  eagle  of  the  storm.  A 
battle  with  these  sea-monsters  ensues.  Ellida  hears 
the  hero's  voice,  and  with  her  copper  keel  smites 
the  whale  so  that  he  dies  ;  and  the  whale-riders 
learn  how  bitter  it  is  to  bite  blue  steel,  being  trans 
fixed  with  Northern  spears  hurled  from  a  hero's 
hands.  And  thus  the  storm  is  stilled,  and  Frithiof 
reaches  at  length  the  shores  of  Angantyr. 

In  the  eleventh  canto  Jarl  Angantyr  sits  in  his 
ancestral  hall  carousing  with  his  friends.  In  merry 
mood  he  looks  forth  upon  the  sea,  where  the  sun  is 
sinking  into  the  waves  like  a  golden  swan.  At  the 
window  the  ancient  Ilalvar  stands  sentinel,  watch 
ful  alike  of  things  within  doors  and  without;  for 
ever  and  anon  he  drains  the  mead-horn  to  the  bot 
tom,  and,  uttering  never  a  word,  thrusts  the  empty 
horn  in  at  the  window  to  be  filled  anew  At  length 
he  announces  the  arrival  of  a  tempest-tost  ship ;  and 
Jarl  Angantyr  looks  forth,  and  recognizes  the 


850  FRITIIIOF  3   SAGA. 

dragon-ship  Ellida,  and  Frithiof,  the  son  of  hia 
friend.  No  sooner  has  he  made  this  known  to  his 
followers,  than  the  Viking  Atle  springs  up  from  his 
seat  and  screams  aloud :  "  Now  will  I  test  the 
truth  of  the  talc  that  Frithiof  can  blunt  the  edge 
of  hostile  sword,  and  never  begs  for  quarter." 
Accordingly  he  and  twelve  other  champions  seize 
their  arms,  and  rush  down  to  the  sea-shore  to  wel 
come  the  stranger  with  warlike  sword-play.  A 
single  combat  ensues  between  Frithiof  and  Atle. 
Both  shields  arc  cleft  in  twain  at  once ;  Angurva- 
del  bites  full  sharp,  and  Atle's  sword  is  broken. 
Frithiof,  disdaining  an  unequal  contest,  throws  his 
own  away,  and  the  combatants  wrestle  together 
unarmed.  Atle  falls;  and  Frithiof,  as  he  plants 
his  knee  upon  the  breast  of  his  foe,  says  that,  if  he 
had  his  sword,  the  Viking  should  feel  its  sharp 
edge  and  die.  The  haughty  Atle  bids  him  go  and 
recover  his  sword,  promising  to  lie  still  and  await 
death,  which  promise  he  fulfils.  Frithiof  seizes 
Angurvadel,  and  when  he  returns  to  smite  the 
prostrate  Viking,  he  is  so  moved  by  his  courage 
and  magnanimity  that  he  stays  the  blow,  seizes  the 
hand  of  the  fallen,  and  they  return  together  as 
friends  to  the  banquet-hall  of  Angantyr.  This  hall 
is  adorned  with  more  than  wonted  splendor.  Its 
walls  are  not  wainscoted  with  roughhcwn  planks, 
but  covered  with  gold-leather,  stamped  with  flowers 
and  fruits.  No  hearth  glows  in  the  centre  of  tho 
floor,  but  a  marble  fireplace  leans  against  the  wall 
There  is  glass  in  the  windows,  there  arc  locks  on 


FRITHIOF'S  SAGA.  351 

the  doors ;  and  instead  of  torches,  silver  chande 
liers  stretch  forth  their  arms  with  lights  over  the 
banquet-table,  whereon  is  a  hart  roasted  whole, 
with  larded  haunches,  and  gilded  hoofs  lifted  as  if 
to  leap,  and  green  leaves  on  its  branching  antlers. 
Behind  each  warrior's  seat  stands  a  maiden,  like  a 
star  behind  a  stormy  cloud.  And  high  on  his  royal 
chair  of  silver,  with  helmet  shining  like  the  sun, 
and  breastplate  inwrought  with  gold,  and  mantle 
star-spangled,  and  trimmed  with  purple  and  ermine, 
sits  the  Viking  Angantyr,  Jarl  of  the  Orkneys. 
With  friendly  salutations  he  welcomes  the  son  of 
Thorstcn,  and  in  a  goblet  of  Sicilian  wine,  foaming 
like  the  sea,  drinks  to  the  memory  of  the  departed ; 
while  Scalds,  from  the  hills  of  Morven,  sing  heroic 
songs.  Frithiof  relates  to  him  his  adventures  at 
sea,  and  makes  known  the  object  of  his  mission ; 
whereupon  Angantyr  declares,  that  he  was  never 
tributary  to  King  Bele ;  that,  although  he  pledged 
him  in  the  wine-cup,  he  was  not  subject  to  his  laws ; 
that  his  sons  he  knew  not ;  but  that,  if  they  wished 
to  levy  tribute,  they  must  do  it  with  the  sword,  like 
men.  And  then  he  bids  his  daughter  bring  from 
her  chamber  a  richly  embroidered  purse,  which  he 
fills  with  golden  coins  of  foreign  mint,  and  gives  to 
Frithiof  as  a  pledge  of  welcome  and  hospitality. 
And  Frithiof  remains  his  guest  till  spring. 

In  the  twelfth  canto  we  have  a  description  of 
Frithiof 's  return  to  his  native  land.  He  finds  his 
homestead  at  Framniis  laid  waste  by  fire ;  house, 
fields,  and  ancestral  forests  are  all  burnt  over.  As 


d52  FRITIIIOF'S  SAGA. 

he  stands  amid  the  ruins,  his  falcon  perches  on  his 
shoulder,  his  dog  leaps  to  welcome  him,  and  his 
snow-white  steed  comes  with  limbs  like  a  hind  and 
neck  like  a  swan.  He  will  have  bread  from  his 
master's  hands.  At  length  old  Hilding  appears 
from  among  the  ruins,  and  tells  a  mournful  tale  ; 
how  a  bloody  battle  had  been  fought  between  King 
Ring  and  Ilclge;  how  Helge  and  his  host  had 
been  routed,  and  in  their  flight  through  Framniis, 
from  sheer  malice,  had  laid  waste  the  lands  of 
Frithiof ;  and  finally,  how,  to  save  their  crown  and 
kingdom,  the  brothers  had  given  Ingeborg  to  be 
the  bride  of  King  Ring.  lie  describes  the  bridal, 
as  the  train  went  up  to  the  temple,  with  virgins  in 
white,  and  men  with  swords,  and  Scalds,  and  the 
pale  bride  seated  on  a  black  steed  like  a  spirit  on 
a  cloud.  At  the  altar  the  fierce  Ilelge  had  torn 
the  bracelet,  the  gift  of  Frithiof,  from  Ingeborg's 
arm,  and  adorned  with  it  the  image  of  Balder. 
And  Frithiof  remembers  that  it  is  now  mid-summer, 
and  festival  time  in  Balder's  temple.  Thither  he 
directs  his  steps. 

Canto  thirteenth.  The  sun  stands,  at  midnight, 
blood-red  on  the  mountains  of  the  North.  It  is  not 
day,  it  is  not  night,  but  something  between  the  two. 
The  fire  blazes  on  the  altar  in  the  temple  of  Balder. 
Priests  with  silver  beards  and  knives  of  flint  in 
their  hands  stand  there,  and  King  Ilclge  with  his 
crown.  A  sound  of  arms  is  heard  in  the  sacred 
grove  without,  and  a  voice  commanding  Bjorn  to 
guard  the  door.  Then  Frithiof  rushes  in  like  a 


FRITHIOF'S  SAGA.  853 

storm  in  autumn.  "  Here  is  your  tribute  from  the 
Western  seas,"  he  cries  ;  "  take  it,  and  then  be 
there  a  battle  for  life  and  death  between  us,  twain, 
here  by  the  light  of  Balder's  altar ; — shields  behind 
us,  and  bosoms  bare  ; — and  the  first  blow  be  thine, 
as  king ;  but  forget  not  that  mine  is  the  second. 
Look  not  thus  toward  the  door ;  I  have  caught  the 
fox  in  his  den.  Think  of  Framnas,  think  of  thy 
sister  with  golden  locks!"  With  these  words  he 
draws  from  his  girdle  the  purse  of  Angantyr,  and 
throws  it  into  the  face  of  the  king  with  such  force 
that  the  blood  gushes  from  his  mouth,  and'he  falls 
senseless  at  the  foot  of  the  altar.  Frithiof  then 
seizes  the  bracelet  on  Balder's  arm,  and  in  trying 
to  draw  it  off  he  pulls  the  wooden  statue  from  its 
base,  and  it  falls  into  the  flames  of  the  altar.  In  a 
moment  the  whole  temple  is  in  a  blaze.  All  at 
tempts  to  extinguish  the  conflagration  are  vain. 
The  fire  is  victorious.  Like  a  red  bird  the  flame 
sits  upon  the  roof,  and  flaps  its  loosened  wings. 
Mighty  was  the  funeral  pyre  of  Balder ! 

The  fourteenth  canto  is  entitled  Frithiof  in 
Exile.  Frithiof  sits  at  night  on  the  deck  of  his 
ship,  and  chants  a  song  of  welcome  to  the  sea, 
which,  as  a  Viking,  he  vows  to  make  his  home  in 
Ufa  and  his  grave  in  death.  "  Thou  knowest 
naught,"  he  sings,  "  thou  Ocean  free,  of  a  king  who 
oppresses  thee  at  his  own  will. 

"  Thy  king  is  he 
Among  the  free, 

VOL.   I.  23 


S54  FRITHIOF'S  SAGA. 

Who  trembles  never, 

How  high  soever 

Heaves  in  unrest 

Thy  foam-white  breast. 

Blue  fields  like  these 

The  hero  please. 

His  keels  go  thorough 

Like  a  plough  in  the  furrough, 

But  steel-bright  are 

The  seeds  sown  there." 

lie  turns  his  prow  from  shore,  and  is  putting  to 
sea,  when  King  Helge,  with  ten  ships,  comes  sail 
ing  out  to  attack  him.  But  anon  the  ships  sink 
down  into  the  sea,  as  if  drawn  downward  by  invis 
ible  hands,  and  Helge  saves  himself  by  swimming 
ashore.  Then  Bjorn  laughed  aloud,  and  told  how 
the  night  before  he  had  bored  holes  in  the  bottom 
of  each  of  Ilelge's  ships.  But  the  king  now  stood 
on  a  clifF,  and  bent  his  mighty  bow  of  steel  against 
the  rock  with  such  force  that  it  snapped  in  twain. 
And  Frithiof  jeering  cried  that  it  was  rust  that  had 
broken  the  bow,  not  Helge's  strength ;  and  to  show 
what  nerve  there  was  in  a  hero's  arm,  he  seized 
two  pines,  large  enough  for  the  masts  of  ships,  but 
shaped  into  oars,  and  rowed  with  such  marvellous 
strength  that  the  two  pines  snapped  in  his  hands 
like  reeds.  And  now  uprose  the  sun,  and  the  land- 
breeze  blew  off  shore ;  and  bidding  his  native 
land  farewell,  Frithiof  the  Viking  sailed  forth  to 
scour  the  seas. 

The  fifteenth  canto  contains  the  Viking's  Code, 
the  laws  of  the  pirate-ship.  No  tent  upon  deck, 


FRITHIOFS   SAGA.  355 

no  slumber  in  house  ;  but  the  shield  must  be  the 
Viking's  couch,  and  his  tent  the  blue  sky  overhead. 
The  hammer  of  victorious  Thor  is  short,  and  the 
sword  of  Frey  but  an  ell  in  length  ;  and  the  war 
rior's  steel  is  never  too  short  if  he  goes  near  enough 
to  the  foe.  Hoist  high  the  sail  when  the  wild  storm 
blows ;  'tis  merry  in  stormy  seas ;  onward  and  ever 
onward ;  he  is  a  coward  who  strikes ;  rather  sink 
than  strike.  There  shall  be  neither  maiden  nor 
drunken  revelry  on  board.  The  freighted  mer 
chantman  shall  be  protected,  but  must  not  refuse 
his  tribute  to  the  Viking ;  for  the  Viking  is  king  of 
the  waves,  and  the  merchant  a  slave  to  gain,  and 
the  steel  of  the  brave  is  as  good  as  the  gold  of  the 
rich.  The  plunder  shall  be  divided  on  deck,  by  lot 
and  the  throwing  of  dice ;  but  in  this  the  sea-king 
takes  no  share ;  glory  is  his  prize ;  he  wants  none 
other.  They  shall  be  valiant  in  fight,  and  merciful 
to  the  conquered ;  for  he  who  begs  for  quarter  has 
no  longer  a  sword,  is  no  man's  foe ;  and  Prayer  is  a 
child  of  Valhalla, — they  must  listen  to  the  voice  of 
the  pale  one.  With  such  laws  sailed  the  Viking 
over  the  foaming  sea  for  three  weary  years,  and 
came  at  length  to  the  Isles  of  Greece,  which  in  days 
of  yore  his  father  had  so  oft  described  to  him,  and 
whither  he  had  wished  to  flee  with  Ingeborg.  And 
thus  the  forms  of  the  absent  and  the  dead  rose  up 
before  him,  and  seemed  to  beckon  him  to  his  home 
in  thf  North.  He  is  weary  of  sea-fights,  and  of 
hewing  men  in  twain,  and  of  the  glory  of  battle. 
The  flag  at  the  mast-head  pointed  northward ;  there 


356  FIUTIIIOF'S  SAGA. 

lay  the  beloved  land ;  he  resolved  to  follow  the 
course  of  the  winds  of  heaven,  and  steer  back 
again  to  the  North. 

Canto  sixteenth  is  a  dialogue  between  Frithiof 
and  hia  friend  Bjorn,  in  which  the  latter  gentleman 
exhibits  some  of  the  rude  and  uncivilized  tastes  of 
his  namesake,  Bruin  the  Bear.  They  have  again 
reached  the  shores  of  their  fatherland.  Winter  is 
approaching.  The  sea  begins  to  freeze  around 
their  keel.  Frithiof  is  weary  of  a  Viking's  life. 
He  wishes  to  pass  the  Yule-tide  on  land,  and  to 
visit  King  Ring,  and  his  bride  of  the  golden  locks, 
his  beloved  Ingeborg.  Bjorn,  dreaming  all  the 
while  of  bloody  exploits,  offers  himself  as  a  com 
panion,  and  talks  of  firing  the  king's  palace  at 
night,  and  bearing  off  the  queen  by  force.  Or  if 
his  friend  dwnns  the  old  king  worthy  of  a  holm- 
glng,*  or  of  a  battle  on  the  ice,  he  is  ready  for 
either.  But  Frithiof  tells  him  that  only  gentle 
thoughts  now  fill  his  bosom.  He  wishes  only  to 
take  a  last  farewell  of  Ingeborg.  These  delicate 
feelings  cannot  penetrate  the  hirsute  breast  of 
Bruin.  He  knows  not  what  this  love  may  be ; — 
this  sigliing  and  sorrow  for  a  maiden's  sake.  The 
world,  he  says,  is  full  of  maidens ;  and  he  offers  to 
bring  Frithiof  a  whole  ship-load  from  the  glowing 

•  A  duel  between  the  Vikinga  of  the  North  was  called  a  holm- 
gang,  because  the  two  combatants  met  on  an  island  to  decide 
their  quarrel.  Fierce  battles  were  likewise  fought  by  armies  on 
the  ice;  the  frozen  baya  and  lakes  of  a  mountainous  country 
being  oftentimes  t'ac  only  phiias  lar^c  enough  for  battle-Celda- 


FRITHIOF'S  SAGA.  357 

South,  all  red  as  roses  and  gentle  as  lambs.  But 
Fritliiof  will  not  stay.  He  resolves  to  go  to  King 
Ring  ;  but  not  alone,  for  his  sword  goes  with  him. 

The  seventeenth  canto  relates  how  King  Ring 
«at  in  his  banquet-hall  at  Yule-tide  and  drank 
mead.  At  his  side  sat  Ingeborg  his  queen,  like 
Spring  by  the  side  of  Autumn.  And  an  old  man, 
and  unknown,  all  wrapped  in  skins,  entered  the 
hall,  and  humbly  took  his  seat  near  the  door.  And 
the  courtiers  looked  at  each  other  with  scornful 
smiles,  and  pointed  with  the  finger  at  the  hoary 
bear-skin  man.  At  this  the  stranger  waxed  angry, 
and  seizing  with  one  hand  a  young  coxcomb,  he 
"  twirled  him  up  and  down."  The  rest  grew  silent ; 
he  would  have  done  the  same  with  them.  "  Who 
breaks  the  peace  ?  "  quoth  the  king.  "  Tell  us 
who  thou  art,  and  whence,  old  man."  And  the  old 
man  answered, 

"  In  Anguish  was  I  nurtured,  Want  is  my  homestead 

hight, 
Now  come  I  from  the  Wolf's  den,  I  slept  with  him  last 

night." 

But  King  Ring  is  not  so  easily  duped,  and  bids  the 
stranger  lay  aside  his  disguise.  And  straight  the 
shaggy  bear-skin  fell  from  the  head  of  the  unknown 
guest,  and  down  from  his  lofty  forehead,  over  his 
shoulders  broad  and  full,  floated  his  shining  ringlets 
like  a  wave  of  gold.  Frithiof  stood  before  them 
in  a  rich  mantle  of  blue  velvet,  with  a  hand-broad 
silver  belt  around  his  waist;  and  the  color  came 


358  FRITHIOF'S  SAGA. 

and  went  in  the  cheek  of  the  queen,  like  the  North 
ern  light  on  fields  of  snow, 

u  And  as  two  water-lilies,  beneath  the  tempest's  might, 
Lie  heaving  on  the  billow,  so  heaved  her  bosom  white." 

And  now  a  horn  blew  in  the  hall,  and  kneeling  on 
a  silver  dish,  with  haunch  and  shoulder  hung  "  with 
garlands  gay  and  rosemary,"  and  holding  an  apple 
in  his  mouth,  the  wild-boar  was  brought  in.* 

And  King  Ring  rose  up  in  his  hoary  locks,  and, 
laying  his  hand  upon  the  boar's  head,  swore  an  oath 
that  he  would  conquer  Frithiof,  the  great  champion, 
so  help  him  Frey  and  Odin,  and  the  mighty  Thor. 
With  a  disdainful  smile  Frithiof  threw  his  sword 
upon  the  table  so  that  the  hall  echoed  to  the  clang, 
and  every  warrior  sprang  up  from  his  seat,  and 
turning  to  the  king  he  said :  "  Young  Frithiof  is 
my  friend ;  I  know  him  well,  and  I  swear  to  pro 
tect  him,  were  it  against  the  world;  so  help  me 
Destiny  and  my  good  sword."  The  king  was 
pleased  at  this  great  freedom  of  speech,  and  invited 
the  stranger  to  remain  their  guest  till  spring ;  bid 
ding  Ingeborg  fill  a  goblet  with  the  choicest  wine 
for  the  stranger.  With  downcast  eyes  and  trem 
bling  hand  she  presented  Frithiof  a  goblet,  which 

*  The  old  English  custom  of  the  boar's  head  at  Christmas  dates 
from  a  far  antiquity.  It  was  in  use  at  the  festivals  of  Yule-tid« 
unong  Ihe  pagan  Northmen.  The  words  of  Chaucer  in  tho 
Fraukleiii'B  Tale  will  apply  to  the  old  hero  of  the  North :  - 

"  And  he  drinketh  of  his  bugle-horn  the  wine, 
B*fore  him  standeth  the  brawne  of  the  tusked  swiu«." 


FRITHIOF'S  SAGA.  359 

two  men,  as  men  are  now,  could  not  have  drained ; 
but  he,  in  honor  of  his  lady-love,  quaffed  it  at  a 
single  draught.  And  then  the  Scald  took  his  harp 
and  sang  the  song  of  Hagbart  and  Fair  Signe,  the 
llomeo  and  Juliet  of  the  North.  And  thus  the 
Yule-carouse  was  prolonged  far  into  the  night,  and 
the  old  fellows  drank  deep,  till  at  length 

"  They  all  to  sleep  departed,  withouten  pain  or  care, 
But  old  King  Ring,  the  graybeard,  slept  with  Ingeborg  the 
fair." 

The  next  canto  describes  a  sledge-ride  on  the 
ice.  It  has  a  cold  breath  about  it.  The  short,  sharp 
Btanzas  are  like  the  angry  gusts  of  a  northwester. 

"  King  Ring  with  his  queen  to  the  banquet  did  fare, 
On  the  lake  stood  the  ice  so  mirror-clear. 

"  '  Fare  not  o'er  the  ice,'  the  stranger  cries ; 
'  It  will  burst,  and  full  deep  the  cold  bath  lies.' 

"  '  The  king  drowns  not  easily,'  Ring  outspake ; 
'  He  who's  afraid  may  go  round  the  lake.' 

"  Threatening  and  dark  looked  th'e  stranger  round, 
His  steel  shoes  with  haste  on  his  feet  he  bound. 

"  The  sledge-horse  starts  forth  strong  and  free; 
'  He  snorteth  flames,  so  glad  is  he. 

"  '  Strike  out,'  screamed  the  king,  'my  trotter  good, 
Let  us  see  if  thou  art  of  Sleipner's  *  blood.' 

"  They  go  as  a  storm  goes  over  the  lake, 
No  heed  to  his  queen  doth  the  old  man  take. 

*  The  stoed  of  OOio. 


360  FRITHIOF'S  SAGA. 

"  But  the  steel-shod  champion  standeth  not  still, 
He  passeth  by  them  as  swift  as  he  will. 

"  He  carves  many  runes  in  the  frozen  tide, 
Fair  Ingeborg  o'er  her  own  name  doth  glide." 

Thus  they  speed  away  over  the  ice,  but  beneath 
them  the  treacherous  Ran  *  lies  in  ambush.  She 
breaks  a  hole  in  her  silver  roof,  the  sledge  is  sink 
ing,  and  fair  Ingeborg  is  pale  with  fear,  when  the 
stranger  on  his  skates  comes  sweeping  by  like  a 
whirlwind.  lie  seizes  the  steed  by  his  mane,  and 
at  a  single  pull  places  the  sledge  upon  firm  ice 
again.  They  return  together  to  the  king's  palace, 
where  the  stranger,  who  is  none  else  than  Frithiof, 
remains  a  guest  till  spring. 

The  nineteenth  canto  is  entitled  Frithiof 's  Temp 
tation.  It  is  as  follows. 

"  Spring  is  coming,  birds  are  twittering,  forests  leaf,  and 

smiles  the  sun, 
And  the  loosened  torrents  downward,  singing,  to  the  ocean 

run; 
Glowing  like  the  cheek  of  Freya,  peeping  rosebuds  'gin 

to  ope, 
And  in  human  hearts  awaken  love  of  life,  and  joy,  and 

hope. 

"Now  will  hunt  the  ancient  monarch,  and  the  queen  shall 

join  the  sport: 
Swarming  in  its  gorgeous  splendor,  is  assembled  all  the 

court ; 

*  A  giantess  holding  dominion  over  the  waters. 


FRITJIIOF'S  SAGA.  361 

Bows  ring  loud,  and    quivers  rattle,  stallions  paw  the 

ground  alway, 
And,  with  hoods  upon  their  eyelids,  scream  the  falcons 

for  their  prey. 

"  See,  the  Queen  of  the  chase  advances !    Frithiof,  gaze 

not  at  the  sight ! 
Like  a  star  upon  a  spring-cloud  sits  she  on  her  palfrey 

white. 
Half  of  Freya,*  half  of  Rota,f  yet  more  beauteous  than 

these  two, 
And  from  her  light  hat  of  purple  wave  aloft  the  feathers 

blue. 

u  Gaze  not  at  her  eye's  blue  heaven,  gaz&  not   at  her 

golden  hair ! 
0  beware!    her  waist   is    slender,  full    her  bo&om   is, 

beware ! 
Look  not  at  the  rose  and  lily  on  her  cheek  that  tliifting 

Pla7» 

List  not  to  the  voice  beloved,  whispering  like  the  wind  of 
May. 

"  How  the  huntsman's  band  is  ready.    Hurrah !  over  hill 

and  dale ! 
Horns  ring,  and  the  hawks  right  upward  to  the  hall  of 

Odin  sail. 
All  the  dwellers  in  the  forest  seek  in  fear  their  cavern 

homes, 
But,  with  spear  outstretched  before  her,  after  them  tho 

Valkyr  comes." 


*  The  goddess  of  Lore  and  Beauty;  the  Venus  of  the  North, 
t  One  of  the  Valkyrs,  or  celestial  virgins,  who  bear  off  the 
gouls  of  the  slain  in  battle. 


362  FRITHIOF'S  SAGA. 

The  old  king  cannot  keep  pace  with  the  chase 
Frithiof  rides  beside  him,  silent  and  sad.  Gloomy 
musings  rise  within  him,  and  he  hears  continually 
the  mournful  voices  of  his  own  dark  thoughts 
Why  had  he  left  the  ocean,  where  all  care  is  blown 
away  by  the  winds  of  heaven  ?  Here  be  wanders 
amid  dreams  and  secret  longings.  He  cannot  for 
get  Balder's  grove.  But  the  grim  gods  are  no 
longer  friendly.  They  have  taken  his  rosebud  and 
placed  it  on  the  breast  of  Winter,  whose  chill  breath 
covers  bud  and  leaf  and  stalk  with  ice.  And  thus 
they  come  to  a  lonely  valley  shut  in  by  mountains, 
and  overshadowed  by  beeches  and  alders.  Here 
the  king  alights ;  the  quiet  of  the  place  invites  to 
slumber. 


"Then  threw  Frithiof  down  his  mantle,  and  upon  tie 

greensward  spread, 
And  the  ancient  king  so  trustful  laid  on  FrithioPs  knee 

his  head, 
Slept,    as    calmly    as    the    hero    sleepeth,    after    ivar's 

alarm, 
On  bis  shield,  calm  as  an  infant  sleepeth  on  its  mother's 

arm. 

"  As  he  slumbers,  hark !  there  sings  a  coal-black  bird 

upon  the  bough : 
1  Hasten,  Frithiof,  slay  the  old  man,  end  your  quarrel  at 

a  blow ; 
Take  his  queen,  for  she  is  thine,  and  once  the  bridal  kiss 

she  gave, 
Now  no  human  eye  beholds  thee,  deep  and  siler.t  is  the 

grave.' 


FRITHIOF'S  SAGA.  363 

"Frithiof  listens;  hark!  there  sings  a  snow-white  bird 

upon  the  bough : 
Though  no  human  eye  beholds  thee,  Odin's  eye  beholds 

thee  now. 
Coward !  wilt  thou  murder  sleep,  and  a  defenceless  old 

man  slay? 
Whatsoe'er  thou  winn'st,  thou  canst  not  win  a  hero's  fame 

this  way.' 

"  Thus  the  two  wood-birds  did  warble :  Frithiof  took  his 

war-sword  good, 
With  a  shudder  hurled  it  from  him,  far  into  the  gloomy 

wood. 
Coal-black  bird  flies  down  to  Nastrand,*  but  on  light, 

unfolded  wings, 
Like  the  tone  of  harps,  the  other,  sounding  towards  the 

sun,  up  springs. 

"  Straight  the  ancient  king  awakens.    *  Sweet  has  been 

my  sleep,'  he  said; 
1  Pleasantly  sleeps  one  in  the  shadow,  guarded  by  a  brave 

man's  blade. 
But  where  is  thy  sword,  0  stranger?   Lightning's  brother, 

where  is  he  ? 
Who  thus  parts  you,  who  should  never  from  each  other 

parted  be  ? ' 

"'It  avails  not,'  Frithiof  answered;  'in  the  North  are 

other  swords : 
Sharp,  0  monarch!  is  the  sword's  tongue,  and  it  speaks 

not  peaceful  words ; 
Murky  spirits  dwell  in  steel  blades,  spirits  from  the  Nif- 

felhem ; 
Slumber  is  not  safe  before  them,  silver  locks  but  angei 

them.'  " 

*  The  Strand  of  Corpses ;  a  region  in  the  Niffelhem,  or  Scandi< 
fcaviau  hell. 


504  PRIIHIOF'S  SAGA. 

To  this  the  old  king  replies,  that  he  has  not  been 
asleep,  but  has  feigned  sleep,  merely  to  put  Frithiof 
— for  he  has  long  recognized  the  hero  in  his  guest 
— to  the  trial.  He  then  upbraids  him  for  having 
come  to  his  palace  in  disguise,  to  steal  his  queen 
away ;  he  had  expected  the  coming  of  a  warrior 
with  an  army ;  he  beheld  only  a  beggar  in  tatters. 
But  now  he  has  proved  him,  and  forgiven ;  has 
pitied,  and  forgotten.  He  is  soon  to  be  gathered 
to  his  fathers.  Frithiof  shall  take  his  queen  and 
kingdom  after  him.  Till  then  he  shall  remain  his 
guest,  and  thus  their  feud  shall  have  an  end.  But 
Frithiof  answers,  that  he  came  not  as  a  thief  to 
steal  away  the  queen,  but  only  to  gaze  upon  her 
face  once  more.  He  will  remain  no  longer.  The 
vengeance  of  the  offended  gods  hangs  over  him. 
He  is  an  outlaw.  On  the  green  earth  he  seeks  no 
more  for  peace  ;  for  the  earth  burns  beneath  his 
feet,  and  the  trees  lend  lum  no  shadow.  "  There 
fore,"  he  cries,  "  away  to  sea  again  !  Away,  my 
dragon  brave,  to  bathe  again  thy  pitch-black  breast 
in  the  briny  wave !  Flap  thy  white  wings  in  the 
clouds,  and  cut  the  billow  with  a  whistling  sound ; 
fly,  fly,  as  far  as  the  bright  stars  guide  thee,  and 
the  subject  billows  bear.  Let  me  hear  the  light 
ning's  voice  again  ;  and  on  the  open  sea,  in  battle, 
amid  clang  of  shields  and  arrowy  rain,  let  me  die, 
and  go  up  to  th«  dwelling  of  the  gods !  " 

In  the  twentieth  canto  the  death  of  King  Ring  is 
described.  The  sunshine  of  a  pleasant  spring 
morning  plays  into  the  palace-hall,  when  Frithiof 


FRITHIOF'S  SAGA  365 

enters  to  bid  his  royal  friends  a  last  farewell.  With 
them  he  bids  his  native  land  good  night. 


t:  No  more  shall  I  see 

In  its  upward  motion 

The  smoke  of  the  Northland.    Man  is  a  slave ; 

The  Fates  decree. 

On  the  waste  of  the  ocean 

There  is  my  fatherland,  there  is  my  grave. 

"  Go  not  to  the  strand, 

Ring,  with  thy  bride, 

After  the  stars  spread  their  light  through  the  sky. 

Perhaps  in  the  sand, 

Washed  tip  by  the  tide, 

The  bones  of  the  outlawed  Viking  may  lie. 

"  Then  quoth  the  king, 

*  'Tis  mournful  to  hear 

A  man  like  a  whimpering  maiden  cry. 

The  death-song  they  sing 

Even  now  in  mine  ear. 

What  avails  it?    He  who  is  born  must  dio.'  " 


He  then  says  that  he  himself  is  about  to  depart 
for  Valhalla ;  that  a  death  on  the  straw  becomes 
not  a  King  of  the  Northmen.  He  would  fain  die 
the  death  of  a  hero ;  and  he  cuts  on  his  arms  and 
breast  the  runes  of  death, — runes  to  Odin.  And 
while  the  blood  drops  from  among  the  silvery  hairs 
of  his  naked  bosom,  he  calls  for  a  flowing  goblet, 
and  drinks  a  health  to  the  glorious  North ;  and  in 


366  FRITHIOF'S  SAGA. 

spirit  hears  the  Gjallar  Horn,*  and  goes  to  Val« 
halla,  where  glory,  like  a  golden  helmet,  crowns 
the  coming  guest. 

The  next  canto  is  the  Drapa,  or  Dirge  of  King 
lling,  in  the  unrhymed,  alliterative  stanzas  of  the 
old  Icelandic  poetry.  The  Scald  sings  how  the 
high-descended  monarch  sits  in  his  tomb,  with  his 
shield  on  his  arm  and  his  battle-sword  by  his  side. 
His  gallant  steed,  too,  neighs  in  the  tomb,  and  paws 
the  ground  with  his  golden  hoofs,  f  But  the  spirit 
of  the  departed  rides  over  the  rainbow,  which  bends 
beneath  its  burden,  up  to  the  open  gates  of  Val 
halla.  Here  the  gods  receive  him,  and  garlands 
are  woven  for  him  of  golden  grain  with  blue 
flowers  intermingled,  and  Brage  sings  a  song  of 
praise  and  welcome  to  the  wise  old  Ring. 

"  Now  rideth  royal 
Ring  over  Bifrost,  J 
Sways  with  the  burden 
The  bending  bridge. 
Open  spring  Valhall's 
Vaulted  doors  widely; 
Asanar's  ||  hands  are 
Hanging  in  his. 


*  The  Gjallar  Ilorn  was  blown  by  Ileimdnl,  the  watchman  of 
the  gods.  lie  was  the  son  of  nine  virgins,  and  was  called  "  th« 
God  with  tho  Golden  Teeth."  Ilis  watch-tower  was  upon  the 
rainbow,  and  he  blew  his  horn  whenever  a  fallen  hero  rode  over 
the  Bridge  of  Heaven  to  Valhalla. 

t  It  was  a  Scandinavian,  as  well  as  a  Scythian  custom,  to  bury 
the  favorite  steed  of  a  warrior  in  the  same  tomb  with  him. 

J  The  rainbow.  ||  The  great  gods 


FAITHIOF'S  SAGA.  367 

Brage,  the  graybeard, 
Gripetli  the  gold  string, 
Stiller  now  soundeth 
Song  than  before. 
Listening  leaneth 
Vanadi's  *  lovely 
Breast  at  the  banquet 
Burning  to  hear. 

"  '  High  sings  the  sword-blade 
Steady  on  helmet ; 
Boisterous  the  billows,  and 
Bloody  alway. 
Strength,  of  the  gracious 
Gods  is  the  gift,  and 
Bitter  as  Berserk 
Biteth  in  shield. 

"  '  Welcome,  thou  wise  one, 
Heir  of  Valhalla! 
Long  learn  the  Northland 
Laud  to  thy  name. 
Brage  doth  hail  thee, 
Honored  with  horn-drink, 
Nornorna's  herald 
Now  from  the  North.' " 

The  twenty-second  canto  describes,  in  a  very 
spirited  and  beautiful  style,  the  election  of  a  new 
king.  The  yeoman  takes  his  sword  from  the  wall, 
and,  with  clang  of  shields  and  sound  of  arms,  the 
people  gather  together  in  a  public  assembly,  or 
Ting,  whose  roof  is  the  sky  of  heaven.  Here 

*  Freya. 


3C3  FBITHIOF'S  SAGA. 

Frithiof  harangues  them,  bearing  aloft  on  hia 
shield  the  little  son  of  King,  who  sits  there  like  a 
king  on  his  throne,  or  a  young  eagle  on  the  cliff, 
gazing  upward  at  the  sun.  Frithiof  hails  him  as 
King  of  the  Northmen,  and  swears  to  protect  his 
kingdom ;  and  when  the  little  boy,  tired  of  sitting 
on  the  shield,  leaps  fearlessly  to  the  ground,  the 
people  raise  a  shout,  and  acknowledge  him  for 
their  monarch,  and  Jarl  Frithiof  as  regent,  till  the 
boy  grows  older.  But  Frithiof  has  other  thoughts 
than  these.  He  must  away  to  meet  the  Fates  at 
Balder's  ruined  temple,  and  make  atonement  to 
the  offended  god.  And  thus  he  departs. 

Canto  twenty-third  is  entitled  Frithiof  at  his 
Father's  Grave.  The  sun  is  sinking  like  a  golden 
shield  in  the  ocean,  and  the  hills  and  vales  around 
him,  and  the  fragrant  flowers,  and  song  of  birds, 
and  sound  of  the  sea,  and  shadow  of  trees,  awaken 
in  his  softened  heart  the  memory  of  other  days. 
And  he  calls  aloud  to  the  gods  for  pardon  of  his 
crime,  and  to  the  spirit  of  his  father  that  he  should 
come  from  his  grave  and  bring  him  peace  and 
forgiveness  from  the  city  of  the  gods.  And  lo ! 
amid  the  evening  shadows,  from  the  western  wave 
uprising,  landward  floats  the  Fata  Morgana,  and, 
sinking  down  upon  the  spot  where  Balder's  temple 
once  stood,  assumes  itself  the  form  of  a  temple, 
with  columns  of  dark  blue  steel,  and  an  altar  of 
precious  stone.  At  the  door,  leaning  upon  their 
shields,  stand  the  Destinies.  And  the  Destiny  of 
the  Past  points  to  the  solitude  around,  and  the. 


FRITHIOF'S  SAGA.  369 

Destiny  of  the  Future  to  a  beautiful  temple  newly 
risen  from  the  sea.  While  Frithiof  gazes  in 
wonder  at  the  sight,  all  vanishes  away,  like  a 
vision  of  the  night.  But  the  vision  is  interpreted 
by  the  hero  without  the  aid  of  prophet  or  of  sooth 
sayer. 

Canto  twenty-fourth  is  the  Atonement.  The 
temple  of  Balder  has  been  rebuilt,  and  with  such 
magnificence  that  the  North  beholds  in  it  an  image 
of  Valhalla.  And  two  by  two,  in  solemn  proces 
sion,  walk  therein  the  twelve  virgins,  clad  in 
garments  of  silver  tissue,  with  roses  upon  their 
cheeks,  and  roses  in  their  innocent  hearts.  They 
sing  a  solemn  song  of  Balder,  how  much  beloved 
he  was  by  all  that  lived,  and  how  he  fell,  by 
Hoder's  arrow  slain,  and  earth  and  sea  and  heaven 
wept.  And  the  sound  of  the  song  is  not  like  the 
sound  of  a  human  voice,  but  like  the  tones  which 
come  from  the  halls  of  the  gods ;  like  the  thoughts 
of  a  maiden  dreaming  of  her  lover,  when  the  night 
ingale  is  singing  in  the  midnight  stillness,  and  the 
moon  shines  over  the  beech-trees  of  the  North. 
Frithiof  listens  to  the  song ;  and  as  he  listens,  all 
thoughts  of  vengeance  and  of  human  hate  melt 
within'  him,  as  the  icy  breastplate  melts  from  the 
bosom  of  the  fields  when  the  sun  shines  in  Spring. 
At  this  moment  the  high-priest  of  Balder  enters, 
venerable  with  his  long,  silver  beard ;  and  welcom 
ing  the  Viking  to  the  temple  he  has  built,  lie 
delivers  for  his  special  edification  a  long  homily  on 
things  human  and  divine,  with  a  short  catechism 
VOL.  i.  24 


370  FRITIIIOF'S  SAGA. 

of  Northern  mythology.  He  tells  him,  likewise, 
very  truly,  that  more  acceptable  to  the  gods  than 
the  smoke  of  burnt-offerings  is  the  sacrifice  of  one's 
own  vindictive  spirit,  the  hate  of  a  human  soul ; 
and  then  speaks  of  the  Virgin's  Son, — 

"  Sent  by  All-father  to  declare  aright  the  runes 
On  Destiny's  black  shield-rim,  unexplained  till  now. 
Peace  was  his  battle-cry,  and  his  white  sword  was  love 
And  innocence  sat  dove-like  on  his  silver  helm. 
Holy  he  lived  and  taught,  he  died  and  he  forgave, 
And  under  distant  palm-trees  stands  his  grave  in  light. 
His  doctrine,  it  is  said,  wanders  from  dale  to  dale, 
Melting  the  hard  of  heart,  and  laying  hand  in  hand, 
And  builds  the  realm  of  Peace  on  the  atoned  earth. 
I  do  not  know  his  lore  aright,  but  darkly  still 
In  better  hours  I  have  presentiment  thereof, 
And  every  human  heart  feeleth  alike  with  mine. 
One  day,  that  know  I,  shall  it  come,  and  lightly  wave 
Its  white  and  dove-like  wings  over  the  Northern  hills. 
But  there  shall  be  no  more  a  North  for  us  that  day, 
And  oaks  shall  whisper  soft  o'er  the  graves  of  the  for 
gotten." 

He  then  speaks  of  Frithiof's  hatred  to  Bele's 
sons ;  and  tells  him  that  Helge  is  dead,  and  that 
Halfdan  sits  alone  on  Bele's  throne,  urging  him  at 
the  same  time  to  sacrifice  to  the  gods  his  desire  of 
vengeance,  and  proffer  the  hand  of  friendship  to 
the  young  king.  This  is  done  straightway,  Halfdan 
opportunely  coming  in  at  that  moment ;  and  the 
priest  removes  forthwith  the  ban  from  the  Varg-i- 
Veurn,  the  sacrilegious  and  outlawed  man.  And 
then  Ingeborg  enters  the  vaulted  tempi'?,  followed 


FRITHIOF'S  SAGA.  371 

by  maidens,  as  the  moon  is  followed  by  stars  in  the 
vaulted  sky ;  and  from  the  hand  of  her  brother, 
Frithiof  receives  the  bride  of  his  youth,  and  they 
are  married  in  Balder's  temple. 

And  here  endeth  the  Legend  of  Frithiof  the 
Vab'an^  the  noblest  poetic  contribution  which 
Sweden  has  yet  made  to  the  literary  history  of 
the  world. 


HAWTHORNE'S    TWICE-TOLD 
TALES. 

'  1837. 

WHEN  a  new  star  rises  in  the  heavens,  people 
gaze  after  it  for  a  season  with  the  naked  eye,  and 
with  such  telescopes  as  they  can  find.  In  the 
itrcam  of  thought  which  flows  so  peacefully  deep 
and  clear  through  the  pages  of  this  book,  we  see 
the  bright  reflection  of  a  spiritual  star,  after  which 
men  will  be  fain  to  gaze  "  with  the  naked  eye,  an  i 
with  the  spy-glasses  of  criticism."  This  star  is 
but  newly  risen ;  and  ere  long  the  observations  o/ 
numerous  star-gazers,  perched  upon  arm-chain 
and  editors'  tables,  will  inform  the  world  of  its 
magnitude  and  its  place  in  the  heaven  of  poetry, 
whether  it  be  in  the  paw  of  the  Great  Bear,  or  on 
the  forehead  of  Pegasus,  or  on  the  strings  of  the 
Lyre,  or  in  the  wing  of  the  Eagle.  Our  own 
observations  are  as  follows. 

To  this  little  work  let  us  say,  as  was  said  to 

Sidney's  Arcadia:  "  Live  ever,  sweet,  sweet  book  ! 

-the  simple  image  of  his  gentle  wit,  and  the  golden 

pillar  of  his  noble  courage ;  and  ever  notify  unto 


HAWTHORNE'S  TWICE-TOLD  TALES.      373 

the  world  that  thy  writer  was  the  secretary  of 
eloquence,  the  breath  of  the  Muses,  the  honey-bee 
of  the  daintiest  flowers  of  wit  and  art."  It  comes 
from  the  hand  of  a  man  of  genius.  Every  thing 
about  it  has  the  freshness  of  morning  and  of  May.  — 
These  flowers  and  green  leaves  of  poetry  have  not 
the  dust  of  the  highway  upon  them.  They  have 
been  gathered  fresh  from  the  secret  places  of  a 
peaceful  and  gentle  heart.  There  flow  deep 
waters,  silent,  calm,  and  cool ;  and  the  green  trees 
look  into  them  and  "  God's  blue  heaven." 

This  book,  though  in  prose,  is  written,  never 
theless,  by  a  poet.  lie  looks  upon  all  things  in  the 
spirit  of  love,  and  with  lively  sympathies ;  for  to  — 
him  external  form  is  but  the  representation  of 
internal  being,  all  things  having  a  life,  an  end  and 
aim.  The  true  poet  is  a  friendly  man.  He  takes- — 
to  his  arms  even  cold  and  inanimate  things,  and 
rejoices  in  his  heart,  as  did  St.  Francis  of  old, 
when  he  kissed  his  bride  of  snow.  To  his  eye  all 
things  are  beautiful  and  holy ;  all  are  objects  of 
feeling  and  of  song,  from  the  great  hierarchy  of 
the  silent,  saint-like  stars,  that  rule  the  night, 
down  to  the  little  flowers  which  are  "  stars  in  the 
firmament  of  the  earth." 

It  is  one  of  the  attributes  of  the  poetic  min  i  ro  — 
feel  a  universal  sympathy  with  Nature,  both  in  the 
material  world  and  in  the  soul  of  man.  It  identi 
fies  itself  likewise  with  every  object  of  its  sympathy, 
giving  it  new  sensation  and  poetic  life,  whatever 
that  object  may  be,  whether  man,  bird,  beast,  ) 


374      HAWTHORNE'S  TWICE-TOLD  TALES. 

flower,  or  star.  As  to  the  pure  mind  all  tilings 
are  pure,  so  to  the  poetic  mind  all  things  are  poet 
ical.  To  such  souls  no  age  and  no  country  can  bo 
utterly  dull  and  prosaic.  They  make  unto  them 
selves  their  age  and  country;  dwelling  in  the 
universal  mind  of  man,  and  in  the  universal  forma 
of  things.  Of  such  is  the  author  of  this  book. 

There  are  many  who  think  that  the  ages  of 
poetry  and  romance  are  gone  by.  They  look  upon 
the  Present  as  a  dull,  unrhymed,  and  prosaic  trans 
lation  of  a  brilliant  and  poetic  Past.  Their  dreams 
are  of  the  days  of  eld ;  of  the  Dark  Ages,  the  ages 
of  Chivalry,  and  Bards,  and  Troubadours  and 
Minnesingers ;  and  the  times  of  which  Milton 
says :  "  The  villages  also  must  have  their  visitors 
to  inquire  what  lectures  the  bagpipe,  and  the 
rebbec  reads  even  to  the  ballatry,  and  the  gam- 
muth  of  every  municipal  fiddler,  for  these  are  the 
countryman's  Arcadia  and  his  Monte  Mayors." 

We  all  love  ancient  ballads.  Pleasantly  to  all 
ears  sounds  the  voice  of  the  people  in  song, 
swelling  fitfully  through  the  desolate  chambers 
of  the  Past  like  the  wind  of  evening  among  ruins. 
And  yet  this  voice  does  not  persuade  us  that  the 
days  of  balladry  were  more  poetic  than  our  own. 
The  spirit  of  the  Past  pleads  for  itself,  and  the 
spirit  of  the  Present  likewise.  If  poetry  be  an 
element  of  the  human  mind,  and  consequently  in 
accordance  with  nature  and  truth,  it  would  be 
strange  indeed  if,  as  the  human  mind  advances, 
poetry  should  recede.  The  truth  is,  that,  when 


HAWTHORNE'S  TWICE-TOLD  TALES.      375 

we  look  back  upon  the  Past,  we  see  only  its  bright 
and  poetic  features.  All  that  is  dull,  prosaic,  and 
commonplace,  is  lost  in  the  shadowy  distance. 
We  see  the  moated  castle  on  the  hill,  and, 

"  Golden  and  red,  above  it 
The  clouds  float  goi'geously" ; 

but  we  see  not  the  valley  below,  where  the  patient 
bondman  toils  like  a  beast  of  burden.  We  see 
the  tree-tops  waving  in  the  wind,  and  hear  the 
merry  birds  singing  under  their  green  roofs ;  but 
we  forget  that  at  their  roots  there  are  swine 
feeding  upon  acorns.  With  the  Present  it  is  not 
so.  We  stand  too  near  to  see  objects  in  a  pictur 
esque  light.  What  to  others,  at  a  distance,  is  a 
bright  and  folded  summer  cloud,  is  to  us,  who  are 
in  it,  a  dismal,  drizzling  rain.  Thus  has  it  been 
since  the  world  began.  Ours  is  not  the  only 
Present  which  has  seemed  dull,  commonplace,  and 
prosaic. 

The  truth  is,  the  heaven  of  poetry  and  romance 
still  lies  around  us  and  within  us.  So  long  aa 
truth  is  stranger  than  fiction,  the  elements  of 
poetry  and  romance  will  not  be  wanting  in 
common  life.  If,  invisible  ourselves,  we  could 
follow  a  single  human  being  through  a  single  day 
of  his  life,  and  know  all  his  secret  thoughts  and 
hopes  and  anxieties,  his  prayers  and  tears  and 
good  resolves,  his  passionate  delights  and  struggles 
against  temptation, — all  that  excites,  and  all  that 
soothes  the  heart  of  man, — we  should  have  poetry 


376      HAWTHORNE'S  TWICE-TOLD  TALES. 

enough  to  fill  a  volume.  Nay,  set  the  imagination 
free,  like  another  bottle-imp,  and  bid  it  lift  for  you 
the  roofs  of  the  city,  street  by  street,  and  after  a 
single  night's  observation  you  may  sit  down  and 
write  poetry  and  romance  for  the  rest  of  yonr 
life. 

The  Twice-told  Tales  are  so  called  from  having 
been  first  published  in  various  annuals  and  maga 
zines,  and  now  collected  together  and  told  a  second 
time  in  a  volume.  And  a  very  delightful  volume 
they  make  ; — one  of  those  which  excite  in  you  a 
feeling  of  personal  interest  for  the  author.  A 
calm,  thoughtful  face  seems  to  be  looking  at  you 
from  every  page,  with  now  a  pleasant  smile,  and 
now  a  shade  of  sadness  stealing  over  its  features. 
Sometimes,  though  not  often,  it  glares  wildly  at 
you,  with  a  strange  and  painful  expression,  as,  in 
the  German  romance,  the  bronze  knocker  of  the 
Archivarius  Lindhorst  makes  up  faces  at  the 
Student  Anselmus. 

One  of  the  prominent  characteristics  of  these 
tales  is,  that  they  are  national  in  their  character. 
The  autliDr  has  chosen  his  themes  among  the 
traditions  of  New  England ;  the  dusty  legends 
of  "  the  good  old  colony  times,  when  we  lived 
under  a  king."  This  is  the  right  material  for  story. 
It  seems  as  natural  to  make  tales  out  of  old, 
tumble-down  traditions,  as  canes  and  snuff-boxes 
out  of  old  steeples,  or  trees  planted  by  great  men. 
The  dreary,  old  Puritanical  times  begin  to  look 
romantic-  in  tin-  (li-tuin-c.  jAVho  woul  not  like  to 


HAWTHORNE'S  TV/ICE-TOLD  TALES.       377 

nave  strolled  through,  tlie  city  of  Agamenticus, 
where  a  market  vas  held  every  week,  on  Wednes* 
day,  and  there  were  two  annual  fairs  at  St.  James's 
and  St.  Paul's  ?  Who  would  not  like  to  have 
been  present  at  the  court  of  the  worshipful  Thomas 
Gorges,  in  those  palmy  days  of  the  law  when  Tom 
H<?ard  was  fined  five  shillings  for  being  drunk, 
and  John  Payne  the  same,  "  for  swearing  one 
oath  "  ?  Who  would  not  like  to  have  seen  Thomas 
Taylor  presented  to  the  grand  jury  "  for  abusing 
Captain  Raynes,  being  in  authority,  by  thee-ing 
and  thou-ing  him";  and  John  Wardell  likewise, 
for  denying  Cambridge  College  to  be  an  ordinance 
of  God ;  and  people  fined  for  winking  at  comely 
damsels  in  church ;  and  others  for  being  common 
sleepers  there  on  the  Lord's  day  ?  Truly,  many 
quaint  and  quiet  customs,  many  comic  scenes  and 
strange  adventures,  many  wild  and  wondrous 
things,  fit  for  humorous  tale,  and  soft,  pathetic 
story,  lie  all  about  us  here  in  New  England. 
There  is  no  tradition  of  the  Rhine  nor  of  the 
Black  Forest  which  surpasses  in  beauty  that  of  the 
Phantom  Ship  of  New  Haven.  The  Flying  Dutch 
man  of  the  Cape,  and  the  Klabotermann  of  the 
Baltic,  are  nowise  superior.  The  story  of  Peter 
Rugg,  the  man  who  could  not  find  Boston,  is  as 
good  as  that  told  by  Gervase  of  Tilbury,  of  a  man 
who  gave  himself  to  the  devils  by  an  unfortunate 
imprecation,  .and  was  used  by  them  as  a  wheel 
barrow  ;  and  the  Great  Carbuncle  of  the  White 
Mountains  shines  with  no  less  splendor  than  that 


378         HAWTHORNE'S   TWICE-TOLD    TALES. 

which    illuminated    the    subterranean    palace    in 
Rome,  as  related  by  William  of  Malmesbury. 

Another  characteristic  of  this  writer  is  the  ex 
ceeding  beauty  of  his  style.  It  is  as  clear  as 
running  waters.  Indeed,  he  uses  words  as  mere 
stepping-stones,  upon  which,  with  a  free  and 
youthful  bound,  liis  spirit  crosses  and  recrosees 
the  bright  and  rushing  stream  of  thought  Some 
writers  of  the  present  day  have  introduced  a  kind 
of  Gothic  architecture  into  their  style.  All  is 
fantastic,  vast,  and  wondrous  in  the  outward  form, 
and  within  is  mysterious  twilight,  and  the  swelling 
sound  of  an  organ,  and  a  voice  chanting  hymns  in 
Latin,  which  need  a  translation  for  many  of  the 
crowd.  To  this  I  do  not  object  Let  the  priest 
chant  in  what  language  he  will,  so  long  as  ho 
understands  his  own  Mass-book.  But  if  he  wishes 
the  world  to  listen  and  be  edified,  he  will  do  well 
to  choose  a  language  that  is  generally  understood. 


THE  GREAT  METROPOLIS. 

1837. 

I  HAVE  an  affection  for  a  great  city.  I  feel  safe 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  man,  and  enjoy  "  the  sweet 
security  of  streets."  The  excitement  of  the  crowd 
is  pleasant  to  me.  I  find  sermons  in  the  stones 
of  the  pavement,  and  in  the  continuous  sound 
of  voices  and  wheels  and  footsteps  hear  "  the  sad 
music  of  humanity."  I  feel  that  life  is  not  a 
dream,  but  a  reality; — that  the  beings  around 
me  are  not  the  insects  of  an  hour,  but  the  pilgrims 
of  an  eternity  ;  each  with  his  history  of  thousand 
fold  occurrences,  insignificant  it  may  be  to  others, 
but  all-important  to  himself;  each  with  a  human 
heart,  whose  fibres  are  woven  into  the  great  web 
of  human  sympathies;  and  none  so  small  that, 
when  he  dies,  some  of  the  mysterious  meshes  are 
not  brokcn.v/The  green  earth,  and  the  air,  and 
the  sea,  all  living  and  all  lifeless  things,  preach  the 
gospel  of  a  good  providence ;  but  most  of  all  does 
man,  in  his  crowded  cities,  and  in  his  manifold 
powers  and  wants  and  passions  and  deeds,  preach 
this  same  gospel.  The  greatest  works  of  his  handi 
craft  delight  me  hardly  less  than  the  greatest  works 


380  THE    GRE.    . 


of  Nature.  They  aji»*u  the  masterpieces  ot  he; 
own  masterpiece."  f^rchitecture,  and  paiuung, 
and  sculpture,  and  music,  and  epic  poem*,  and  ak 
the  forms  of  art,  wherein  the  hand  of  genius  is 
visible,  please  me  evermore,  forthey  coi.duot  ine 
into  the  fellowship  of  great  minds.J  And  thus  my 
sympathies  are  with  men,  and  streets,  and  city 
gates,  and  towers  from  which  the  great  bells  sound 
solemnly  and  slow,  and  cathedral  doors,  where 
venerable  statues,  holding  books  in  their  hands, 
look  down  like  sentinels  upon  the  church-going 
multitude,  and  the  birds  of  the  air  come  and  build 
their  nests  in  the  arms  of  saints  and  apostles. 

And  more  than  all  this,  in  great  cities  we  learn 
to  look  the  world  in  the  face.  We  shake  hands 
with  stern  realities.  We  see  ourselves  in  others. 
We  become  acquainted  with  the  motley,  many- 
sided  life  of  man;  and  finally  learn,  like  Jean 
Paul,  to  "  look  upon  a  metropolis  as  a  collection 
of  villages  ;  a  village  as  some  blind  alley  in  a 
metropolis  ;  fame  as  the  talk  of  neighbours  at  tho 
street  door  ;  a  library  as  a  learned  conversation  , 
joy  as  a  second  ;  sorrow  as  a  minute  ;  life  as  a 
day  ;  and  three  things  as  all  in  all,  God,  Creation, 
Virtue." 

Forty-five  miles  westward  from  the  .North  Sea,  in 
the  lap  of  a  broad  and  pleasant  valley  watered  by 
the  Thames,  stands  the  Great  Metropolis.  It  com 
prises  the  City  of  London  and  its  Liberties,  with 
the  City  and  Liberties  of  Westminster,  the  Borough 
of  Southwark,  and  upwards  of  thirty  of  the  con- 


TA-T£   GREAT   ME1  V\  '     T;.  381 

tiguous  villages  of  Middlesex  arv\  Stx-ty.  East 
and  west,  its  greatest  length  is  about  eight  miles ; 
north  and  south,  its  greatest  breadth  about  five ;  its 
circumference,  from  twenty  to  thirty.  Its  popula 
tion  is  estimated  at  two  millions.  The  vast  living 
tide  goes  thundering  through  its  ten  thousand  streets 
in  one  unbroken  roar.  The  noise  of  the  great 
thoroughfares  is  deafening.  But  you  step  aside 
into  a  by-lane,  and  anon  you  emerge  into  little 
green  squares  half  filled  with  sunshine,  half  wi*-h 
shade,  where  no  sound  of  living  thing  is  heard, 
save  the  voice  of  a  bird  or  a  child,  and  amid  soli  • 
tude  and  silence  you  gaze  in  wonder  at  the  grea; 
trees  "  growing  in  the  heart  of  a  brick-and-morta^ 
wilderness."  Then  there  are  the  three  parks 
Hyde,  Regent's,  and  St.  James's,  where  you  mar 
lose  yourself  in  green  alleys,  and  dream  you  are  ir 
the  country ;  Westminster  Abbey,  with  its  tomb.1 
and  solemn  cloisters,  where,  with  George  Herbert 
you  may  think  that,  "  when  the  bells  do  chime,  'tis 
angels'  music ;  "  and  high  above  all,  half  hidden  ii 
smoke  and  vapor,  rises  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's. 

These  are  a  few  of  the  more  striking  features  ol 
London.  More  striking  still  is  the  Thames.  Above 
the  town,  by  Kingston  and  Twickenham,  it  winds 
through  groves  and  meadows  green,  a  rural,  silver 
stream.  The  traveller  who  sees  it  here  for  the  first 
time  can  hardly  believe  that  this  is  the  mighty  river 
which  bathes  the  feet  of  London.  He  asks,  per 
haps,  the  coachman  what  stream  it  is;  and  the 
coachman  answers,  with  a  stare  of  wonder  and 


382  TIIE   GREAT   METROPOLIS. 

pity,  "  The  Thames,  sir."  Pleasure-boats  aie  glid 
ing  back  aud  forth,  and  stately  swans  float,  like 
water  lilies,  on  its  bosom.  Ou  its  banks  are  vil 
lages  and  church  towers,  beneath  which,  among 
the  patriarchs  of  the  hamlet,  lie  many  gifted  sons 
of  song,  "  in  sepulchres  unhearsed  and  green." 
In  and  below  London  the  whole  scene  is  changed. 

O 

Let  us  view  it  by  night.  Lamps  are  gleaming  along 
shore  and  on  the  bridges,  and  a  full  moon  rising 
over  the  Borough  of  Southwark.  The  moonbeams 
silver  the  rippling,  yellow  tide,  wherein  also  flare 
the  shore  lamps,  with  a  lambent,  flickering  gleam. 
Barges  and  wherries  move  to  and  fro ;  and  heavy- 
laden  luggers  are  sweeping  up  stream  with  the 
rising  tide,  swinging  sideways,  with  loose,  flapping 
sails.  Both  sides  of  the  river  are  crowded  with 
sea  and  river  craft,  whose  black  hulks  lie  in  shadow, 
and  whose  tapering  masts  rise  up  into  moonlight. 
A  distant  sound  of  music  floats  on  the  air ;  a  harp, 
and  a  flute,  and  a  horn.  It  has  an  unearthly  sound ; 
and  lo !  like  a  shooting  star,  a  light  comes  gliding 
on.  It  is  the  signal-lamp  at  the  mast-head  of  a 
steam-vessel,  that  flits  by,  cloud-like  and  indistinct. 
And  from  all  this  scene  goes  up  a  sound  of  human 
voices, — curses,  laughter,  and  singing, — mingled 
with  the  monotonous  roar  of  the  city,  "  the  clash 
ing  and  careering  streams  of  life,  hurrying  to  lose 
Ihemselves  in  the  impervious  gloom  of  eternity." 

And  now  the  midnight  is  past,  and  amid  the 
general  silence  the  clock  strikes, — one,  two.  Far 
listant,  from  some  belfry  in  the  suburbs,  comes  the 


THE   GREAT   METROPOLIS.  383 

first  sound,  so  indistinct  as  hardly  to  be  distinguished 
from  the  crowing  of  a  cock.  Then,  close  at  hand, 
the  great  bell  of  St.  Paul's,  with  a  heavy,  solemn 
sound, — one,  two.  It  is  answered  from  Southwark ; 
then  at  a  distance  like  an  echo ;  and  then  all  around 
you,  with  various  and  intermingling  clang,  like  a 
chime  of  bells,  the  clocks  from  a  hundred  belfries 
strike  the  hour.  But  the  moon  is  already  sinking, 
large  and  fiery,  through  the  vapors  of  morning.  It 
is  just  in  the  range  of  the  chimneys  and  house-tops, 
and  seems  to  folloAv  you  with  speed  as  you  float 
down  the  river  between  unbroken  ranks  of  ships. 
Day  is  dawning  in  the  east,  not  with  a  pale  streak 
in  the  horizon,  but  with  a  silver  light  spread  through 
the  sky  almost  to  the  zenith.  It  is  the  mingling  of 
moonlight  and  daylight.  The  water  is  tinged  with 
a  green  hue,  melting  into  purple  and  gold,  like  the 
brilliant  scales  of  a  fish.  The  air  grows  cool.  It 
comes  fresh  from  the  eastern  sea,  toward  which  we 
are  swiftly  gliding ;  and,  dimly  seen  in  the  uncer 
tain  twilight,  behind  us  rises 

"  A  mighty  mass  of  brick,  and  smoke,  and  shipping, 

Dirty  and  dusky,  but  as  wide  as  eye 
Can  reach;  with  here  and  there  a  sail  just  skipping 

In  sight,  then  lost  amid  the  forestry 
Of  masts ;  a  wilderness  of  steeples  peeping, 

On  tiptoe,  through  their  sea-coal  canopy; 
A  huge  dun  cupola,  like  a  fool's  cap  crown 
On  a  fool's  head; — and  there  is  London  town." 


ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE. 

1838. 

WE  read  in  history,  that  the  beauty  of  an 
ancient  manuscript  tempted  King  Alfred,  when  a 
boy  at  his  mother's  knee,  to  learn  the  letters  of  the 
Saxon  tongue.  A  volume  which  that  monarch 
minstrel  wrote  in  after  years  now  lies  before  me,  so 
beautifully  printed,  that  it  might  tempt  any  one  to 
learn,  not  only  the  letters  of  the  Saxon  language, 
but  the  language  also.  The  monarch  himself  is 
looking  from  the  ornamented  initial  letter  of  the 
first  chapter.  He  is  crowned  and  careworn  ;  hav 
ing  a  beard,  and  long,  flowing  locks,  and  a  face  of 
majesty.  He  seems  to  have  just  uttered  those 
remarkable  words,  with  which  his  Preface  closes : 
"  And  now  he  prays,  and  for  God's  name  implores, 
every  one  of  those  whom  it  lists  to  read  this  book, 
that  he  would  pray  for  him,  and  not  blame  him,  if 
he  more  rightly  understand  it  than  he  could ;  for 
every  man  must,  according  to  the  measure  of  his 
understanding,  and  according  to  his  leisure,  speak 
that  which  he  speaketh,  and  do  that  which  ho 
doeth." 

I  would  fain  hope,  that  the  beauty  of  this  and 


ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE.  385 

other  Anglo-Saxon  books  may  lead  many  to  the 
study  of  that  venerable  language.  Through  such 
gateways  will  they  pass,  it  is  true,  into  no  gay 
palace  of  song ;  but  among  the  dark  chambers  and 
mouldering  walls  of  an  old  national  literature, 
weather-stained  and  in  ruins.  They  will  find, 
however,  venerable  names  recorded  on  those  walls ; 
and  inscriptions,  worth  the  trouble  of  deciphering. 
To  point  out  the  most  curious  and  important  of 
these  is  my  present  purpose  ;  and  according  to  the 
measure  of  my  understanding,  and  according  to 
my  leisure,  I  speak  that  which  I  speak. 

The  Anglo-Saxon  language  was  the  language  of 
our  Saxon  forefathers  in  England,  though  they 
never  gave  it  that  name.  They  called  it  English. 
Thus  King  Alfred  speaks  of  translating  "from 
book-Latin  into  English;"  Abbot  ^Elfric  was  re 
quested  by  ^Ethelward  "  to  translate  the  book  of 
Genesis  from  Latin  into  English ; "  and  Bishop 
Leofric,  speaking  of  the  manuscript  he  gave  to  the 
Exeter  Cathedral,  calls  it  "  a  great  English  book." 
In  other  words,  it  is  the  old  Saxon,  a  Gothic  tongue, 
as  spoken  and  developed  in  England.  That  it  was 
spoken  and  written  uniformly  throughout  the  land 
b  not  to  be  imagined,  when  we  know  that  Jutes 
and  Angles  were  in  the  country  as  well  as  Saxons. 
But  that  it  was  essentially  the  same  language 
everywhere  is  not  to  be  doubted,  when  we  com 
pare  pure  West-Saxon  texts  with  Northumbrian 
glosses  and  books  of  Durham.  Hickes  speaks  of  a 
Dano-Saxon  period  in  the  history  of  the  language. 

VOL.  i.  25 


886  ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE. 

The  Saxon  kings  reigned  six  hundred  years;  the 
Danish  dynasty,  twenty  only.  And  neither  the 
Danish  boors,  who  were  earthlings  in  the  country, 
nor  the  Danish  soldiers,  who  were  dandies  at  the 
court  of  King  Canute,  could,  in  the  brief  space  of 
twenty  years,  have  so  overlaid  or  interlarded  the 
pure  Anglo-Saxon  with  their  provincialisms,  as  to 
give  it  a  new  character,  and  thus  form  a  new  period 
in  its  history,  as  was  afterwards  done  by  the  Nor 
mans. 

The  Dano-Saxon  is  a  dialect  of  the  language, 
not  a  period  which  was  passed  through  in  its  his 
tory.  Dawn  to  the  time  of  the  Norman  Conquest, 
it  existed  in  the  form  of  two  principal  dialects ; 
namely,  the  Anglo-Saxon  in  the  South ;  and  the 
Dano-Saxon,  or  Northumbrian,  in  the  North.  Af 
ter  the  Norman  Conquest,  the  language  assumed  a 
new  form,  which  has  been  called,  properly  enough, 
Norman-Saxon  and  Semi-Saxon. 

This  form  of  the  language,  ever  flowing  and 
filtering  through  the  roots  of  national  feeling,  cus>- 
tom,  and  prejudice,  prevailed  about  two  hundred 
years ;  that  is,  from  the  middle  of  the  eleventh  to 
the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century,  when  it  be 
came  English.  It  is  impossible  to  fix  the  land 
marks  of  a  language  with  any  great  precision  ;  but 
only  floating  beacons,  here  and  there. 

It  is  oftentimes  curious  to  consider  the  far-off 
beginnings  of  great  events,  and  to  study  the  aspect 
of  the  cloud  no  bigger  than  one's  hand.  The 
British  peasant  looked  seaward  from  his  harvest 


ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE.  387 

field,  and  saw,  with  wondering  eyes,  the  piratical 
schooner  of  a  Saxon  Viking  making  for  the  mouth 
of  the  Thames.  A  few  years — only  a  few  years — 
afterward,  while  the  same  peasant,  driven  from  his 
homestead  north  or  west,  still  lives  to  tell  the  story 
to  his  grandchildren,  another  race  lords  it  over  the 
land,  speaking  a  different  language  and  living 
under  different  laws.  This  important  event  in 
his  history  is  more  important  in  the  world's  his 
tory.  Thus  began  the  reign  of  the  Saxons  in 
England ;  and  the  downfall  of  one  nation,  and  the 
rise  of  another,  seem  to  us  at  this  distance  only 
the  catastrophe  of  a  stage-play. 
'  The  Saxons  came  into  England  about  the  middle 
of  the  fifth  century.  They  were  pagans ;  they 
were  a  wild  and  warlike  people ;  brave,  rejoicing 
in  sea-storms,  and  beautiful  in  person,  with  blue 
eyes,  and  long,  flowing  hair.  Their  warriors  wore 
their  shields  suspended  from  their  necks  by  chains. 
Their  horsemen  were  armed  with  iron  sledge 
hammers.  Their  priests  rode  upon  mares,  and 
carried  into  the  battle-field  an  image  of  the  god 
Jrminsula ; — in  figure  like  an  armed  man  ;  his  hel 
met  crested  with  a  cock ;  in  his  right  hand  a  ban 
ner,  emblazoned  with  a  red  rose ;  a  bear  carved 
upon  his  breast;  and_,  hanging  from  his  shoulders,  ___ 
a  shield  on  which  was  a  lion  in  a  field  of  flowers. 

Not  two  centuries  elapsed  before  this  whole 
people  was  converted  to  Christianity.  ^Elfric,  in  his 
homily  on  the  birthday  of  St.  Gregory,  informs  us, 
that  this  conversion  was  accomplished  by  the  holy 


388  ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE. 

wishes  of  that  good  man,  and  the  holy  works  of 
St.  Augustine  and  other  monks.  St.  Gregory,  be 
holding  one  day  certain  slaves  set  for  sale  in  the 
market-place  of  Rome,  who  were  "men  of  fair 
countenance  and  nobly-haired,"  and  learning  that 
they  were  heathens,  and  called  Angles,  heaved  a 
long  sigh,  and  said :  "  Well-away !  that  men  of  so 
fair  a  hue  should  be  subjected  to  the  swarthy  Devil ! 
Rightly  are  they  called  Angles,  for  they  have 
angels'  beauty ;  and  therefore  it  is  fit  that  they  in 
heaven  should  be  companions  of  angels."  As 
soon,  therefore,  as  he  undertook  the  popehood,  the 
monks  were  scut  to  their  beloved  work.  In  the 
Witcna  Gemot,  or  Assembly  of  the  Wise,  con 
vened  by  King  Edwin  of  Northumbria  to  consider 
the  propriety  of  receiving  the  Christian  faith,  a 
Saxon  Ealdorman  arose,  and  spoke  these  noble 
words :  "  Thus  seemeth  to  me,  O  king,  this  present 
life  of  man  upon  earth,  compared  with  the  time 
which  is  unknown  to  us ;  even  as  if  you  were  sitting 
at  a  feast,  amid  your  Ealdormen  and  Thegns  in 
winter-time.  And  the  fire  is  lighted,  and  the  hall 
warmed,  and  it  rains  and  snows  and  storms  with 
out.  Then  cometh  a  sparrow,  and  flieth  about  the 
hall.  It  cometh  in  at  one  door,  and  goeth  out  at 
another.  While  it  is  within,  it  is  not  touched  by 
the  winter's  storm ;  but  that  is  only  for  a  moment, 
only  for  the  least  space.  Out  of  the  winter  it 
cometh,  to  return  again  into  the  winter  eftsoon. 
So  also  this  life  of  man  endureth  for  a  little  space. 
What  goeth  before  it  and  what  followeth  after,  we 


ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE.  389 

know  not.  Wherefore,  if  this  new  lore  bring 
aught  more  certain  and  more  advantageous,  thea 
is  it  worthy  that  we  should  follow  it." 

Thus  the  Anglo-Saxons  became  Christians.  For 
the  good  of  their  souls  they  built  monasteries  and 
went  on  pilgrimages  to  Rome.  The  whole  country, 
to  use  Malmesbury's  phrase,  was  "glorious  and 
refulgent  with  relics."  The  priests  sang  psalms 
night  and  day ;  and  so  great  was  the  piety  of  St. 
Cuthbert,  that,  according  to  Bede,  he  forgot  to 
take  off  his  shoes  for  months  together, — sometimes 
the  whole  year  round ; — from  which  Mr.  Turner 
infers,  that  he  had  no  stockings.*  They  also 
copied  the  Evangelists,  and  illustrated  them  with 
illuminations;  in  one  of  which  St.  John  is  repre 
sented  in  a  pea-green  dress  with  red  stripes.  They 
also  drank  ale  out  of  buffalo  horns  and  wooden- 
knobbed  goblets.  A  Mercian  king  gave  to  the 
Monastery  of  Croyland  his  great  drinking-horn, 
that  the  elder  monks  might  drink  therefrom  at 
festivals,  and  "  in  their  benedictions  remember 
sometimes  the  soul  of  the  donor,  Witlaf."  They 
drank  his  health,  with  that  of  Christ,  the  Virgin 
Mary,  the  Apostles,  and  other  saints.  Malmes- 
bury  says,  that  excessive  drinking  was  the  common 
vice  of  all  ranks  of  people.  King  Hardicanuto 
died  in  a  revel,  and  King  Edmund  in  a  drunken 
brawl  at  Pucklechurch,  being,  with^all  his  court, 
much  overtaken  by  liquor,  at  the  festival  of  St. 

*  History  of  the  Anglo-Saxons,  vol.  ii.  p.  61 


?yO  ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE. 

Augu.^ane.  Thus  did  mankind  go  reeling  through 
the  Dark  Ages;  quarrelling,  drinking,  hunting, 
hawking,  singing  psalrns,  wearing  breeches,*  grind 
ing  in  mills,  eating  hot  bread,  rocked  in  cradles, 
buried  in  coffins, — weak,  suffering,  sublime.  Well 
might  King  Alfred  exclaim,  "  Maker  of  all  crea 
tures  !  help  now  thy  miserable  mankind." 

A  national  literature  is  a  subject  which  should 
always  be  approached  with  reverence.  It  is  diffi 
cult  to  comprehend  fully  the  mind  of  a  nation ; 
even  when  that  nation  still  lives,  and  we  can  visit 
it,  and  its  present  history,  and  the  lives  of  men  we 
know,  help  us  to  a  comment  on  the  written  text. 
But  here  the  dead  alone  speak.  Voices,  half 
understood;  fragments  of  song,  ending  abruptly, 
as  if  the  poet  had  sung  no  further,  but  died  with 
these  last  words  upon  his  lips ;  homilies,  preached 
to  congregations  that  have  been  asleep  for  many 
centuries ;  lives  of  saints,  who  went  to  their  reward 
long  before  the  world  began  to  scoff  at  sainthood ; 
and  wonderful  legends,  once  believed  by  men,  and 
now,  in  this  age  of  wise  children,  hardly  credible 
enough  for  a  nurse's  tale ;  nothing  entire,  nothing 
wholly  understood,  and  no  further  comment  or 
illustration  than  may  be  drawn  from  an  isolated 
fact  found  in  an  old  chronicle,  or  perchance  a 
rude  illumination  in  an  old  manuscript !  Such  is 
the  literature  we  have  now  to  consider.  Such 

*  In  an  old  Anglo-Saxon  dialogue,  a  shoemaker  says  that  he 
makes  "  slippers,  shoes,  and  leather  breeches,"  (swy/lleras,  sceot, 
mnd  l(t!i'.r-'iose.) 


ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE.  391 

fragments,  and  mutilated  remains,  has  the  human 
mind  left  of  itself,  coming  down  through  the  time? 
of  old,  step  by  step,  and  every  step  a  century 
Old  men  and  venerable  accompany  us  through  the 
Past;  and  put  into  our  hands,  at  parting,  such 
written  records  of  themselves  as  they  have.  We 
should  receive  these  things  with  reverence.  We 
should  respect  old  age. 

"  This  leaf,  is  it  not  blown  about  by  the  wind  ? 

Wo  to  it  for  its  fate !— Alas !  it  is  old." 

What  an  Anglo-Saxon  glee-man  was,  we  know 
from  such  commentaries  as  are  mentioned  above. 
King  Edgar  forbade  the  monks  to  be  ale-poets ; 
and  one  of  his  accusations  against  the  clergy  of  his 
day  was,  that  they  entertained  glee-men  in  their 
monasteries,  where  they  had  dicing,  dancing,  and 
singing,  till  midnight.  The  illumination  of  an  old 
manuscript  shows  how  a  glee-man  looked.  It  is  a 
frontispiece  to  the  Psalms  of  David.  The  great 
Psalmist  sits  upon  his  throne,  with  a  harp  in  his 
hand,  and  his  masters  of  sacred  song  around  him. 
Below  stands  the  glee-man,  throwing  three  balls 
and  three  knives  alternately  into  the  air,  and 
catching  them  as  they  fall,  like  a  modern  juggler. 
But  all  the  Anglo-Saxon  poets  were  not  glee- 
men.  All  the  harpers  were  not  dancers.  The 
Sceop,  the  creator,  the  poet,  rose,  at  times,  to 
higher  themes.  He  sang  the  deeds  of  heroes,  vic 
torious  odes,  death-songs,  epic  poems  ;  or  sitting  in 
cloisters,  and  afar  from  these  things,  converted 
holy  writ  into  Saxon  chimes. 


392  ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE. 

The  first  thing  which  strikes  the  reader  of  Anglo 
Saxon  poetry  is  the  structure  of  the  vetse;  the 
short  exclamatory  lines,  whose  rhythm  depends  on 
alliteration  in  the  emphatic  syllables,  and  to  which 
the  general  omission  of  the  particles  gives  great 
energy  and  vivacity.  Though  alliteration  predoni- 
'  nates  in  all  Anglo-Saxon  poetry,  rhyme  is  not 
wholly  wanting.  It  had  line-rhymes  and  final 
rhymes;  which,  being  added  to  the  alliteration, 
and  brought  so  near  together  in  the  short,  em 
phatic  lines,  produce  a  singular  effect  upon  the 
ear.  They  ring  like  blows  of  hammers  on  an  an 
vil.  For  example :  — 

"  Flah  mah  fliteth, 
Flan  man  hwiteth, 
Burg  sorg  biteth, 
Bald  aid  thwiteth, 
Wrsec-fcec  writheth, 
Wrath  ath  smiteth."  * 

Other  peculiarities  of  Anglo-Saxon  poetry,  which 
cannot  escape  the  reader's  attention,  are  its  fre 
quent  inversions,  its  bold  transitions,  and  abundam 
metaphors.  These  are  the  things  which  render 
Anglo-Saxon  poetry  so  much  more  difficult  than 


"  Strong  dart  flitteth, 
Spear-man  whetteth, 
Care  the  city  biteth, 
Age  the  bold  quelleth, 
Vengeance  prevaileth, 
Wrath  a  town  smiteth." 


AXGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE.  393 

Anglo-Saxon  prose.  But  upon  these  points  I  need 
not  enlarge.  It  is  enough  to  allude  to  them. 

One  of  the  oldest  and  most  important  remains 
of  Anglo-Saxon  literature  is  the  epic  poern  of 
Beowulf.  Its  age  is  unknown ;  but  it  comes  from 
a  very  distant  and  hoar  antiquity ;  somewhere 
between  the  seventh  and  tenth  centuries.  It  is 
like  a  piece  of  ancient  armor ;  rusty  and  battered, 
and  yet  strong.  From  within  comes  a  voice  sepul 
chral,  as  if  the  ancient  armor  spoke,  telling  a 
simple,  straight-forward  narrative ;  with  here  and 
there  the  boastful  speech  of  a  rough  old  Dane, 
reminding  one  of  those  made  by  the  heroes  of 
Homer.  The  style,  likewise,  is  simple, — perhaps 
one  should  say,  austere.  The  bold  metaphors, 
which  characterize  nearly  all  the  Anglo-Saxon 
poems,  are  for  the  most  part  wanting  in  this.  The 
author  seems  mainly  bent  upon  telling  us,  how  his 
Sea-Goth  slew  the  Grendel  and  the  Fire-drake. 
He  is  too  much  in  earnest  to  multiply  epithets  and 
gorgeous  figures.  At  times  he  is  tedious,  at  times 
obscure ;  and  he  who  undertakes  to  read  the  orig 
inal  will  find  it  no  easy  task. 

The  poem  begins  with  a  description  of  King 
Hrothgar  the  Scylding,  in  his  great  hall  of  Heort, 
which  reechoed  with  the  sound  of  liar})  and  song. 
But  not  far  off,  in  the  fens  and  marshes  of  Jutland, 
dwelt  a  grim  and  monstrous  giant,  called  Grendel, 
a  descendant  of  Cain.  This  troublesome  individual 
was  in  the  habit  of  occasionally  visiting  the  Scyld- 
ing's  palace  by  night,  to  see,  as  the  author  rather 


894  ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE. 

quaintly  says,  "  how  the  doughty  Danes  found 
themselves  after  their  beer-carouse."  On  his  first 
visit,  he  destroyed  some  thirty  inmates,  all  asleep, 
with  beer  in  their  brains;  and  ever  afterwards 
kept  the  whole  land  in  fear  of  death.  At  length 
the  fame  of  these  evil  deeds  reached  the  ears  of 
Beowulf,  the  Thane  of  Higelac,  a  famous  Viking 
in  those  days,  who  had  slain  sea-monsters,  and 
wore  a  wild-boar  for  his  crest.  Straightway  he 
sailed  with  fifteen  followers  for  the  court  of  Heort; 
unarmed,  in  the  great  mead-hall,  and  at  midnight, 
fought  the  Grendel,  tore  off  one  of  his  arms,  and 
hung  it  up  on  the  palace  wall  as  a  curiosity ;  the 
fiend's  fingers  being  armed  with  long  nails,  which 
the  author  calls  the  hand-spurs  of  the  heathen 
hero.  Retreating  to  his  cave,  the  grim  ghost 
departed  this  life ;  whereat  there  was  great  carous 
ing  at  Heort.  But  at  night  came  the  Grendel's 
mother,  and  carried  away  one  of  the  beer-drunken 
heroes  of  the  ale-wassail.  Beowulf,  with  a  great 
escort,  pursued  her  to  the  fen-lands  of  the  Gren 
del;  plunged,  all  armed,  into  a  dark-rolling  and 
dreary  river,  that  flowed  from  the  monster's  cavern ; 
slew  worms  and  dragons  manifold;  was  dragged 
to  the  bottom  by  the  old-wife  ;  and  seizing  a  magic 
sword,  which  lay  among  the  treasures  of  that  realm 
of  wonders,  with  one  fell  blow,  let  her  heathen 
soul  out  of  its  bone-house.  Having  thus  freed  the 
land  from  the  giants,  Beowulf,  laden  with  gifts  and 
treasures,  departed  homeward,  as  if  nothing  special 
had  happened,  and,  after  the  death  of  King  Iligelac, 


ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE.  395 

ascended  the  throne  of  the  Scylfings.  Here  the 
poern  should  end,  and,  we  doubt  not,  did  originally 
end.  But,  as  it  has  come  down  to  us,  eleven  more 
cantos  follow,  containing  a  new  series  of  adven 
tures*  Beowulf  has  grown  old.  He  has  reigned 
fifty  years ;  and  now,  in  his  gray  old  age,  is  troubled 
by  the  devastations  of  a  monstrous  Fire-drake,  so 
that  his  metropolis  is  beleaguered,  and  he  can  no 
longer  fly  his  hawks  and  merles  in  the  open  coun 
try.  He  resolves,  at  length,  to  fight  with  this- 
Fire-drake ;  and,  with  the  help  of  his  attendant, 
Wiglaf,  overcomes  him.  The  land  is  made  rich  by 
the  treasures  found  in  the  dragon's  cave;  but 
Beowulf  dies  of  his  wounds. 

Thus  departs  Beowulf,  the  Sea-Goth;  of  the 
world-kings  the  mildest  to  men,  the  strongest  of 
hand,  the  most  clement  to  his  people,  the  most 
desirous  of  glory.  And  thus  closes  the  oldest  epic 
in  any  modern  language ;  written  in  forty-three 
cantos  of  some  six  thousand  lines.  The  outline 
here  given  is  filled  up  with  abundant  episodes  and 
warlike  details.  We  have  ale-revels,  and  giving 
of  bracelets,  and  presents  of  mares,  and  songs  of 
bards.  The  battles  with  the  Grendel  and  the 
Fire-drake  are  minutely  described;  as  likewise 
are  the  dwellings  and  rich  treasure-houses  of  these 
monsters.  The  fire-stream  flows  with  lurid  light ; 
the  dragon  breathes  out  flame  and  pestilential 
breath;  the  gigantic  sword,  forged  by  the  Jutes 
of  old,  dissolves  and  thaws  like  an  icicle  in  the 
hero's  grasp ;  and  the  swart  raven  tells  the  eagle 


39G  AXGLO-SAXON    LITERATURE. 

how  he  fared  with  the  fell  wolf  at  the  death-feast 
Such  is,  in  brief,  the  machinery  of  the  poem.  It 
possesses  great  epic  merit,  and  in  parts  is  strikingly 
graphic  in  its  descriptions.  As  we  read,  we  can 
almost  smell  the  brine,  and  hear  the  sea-breeze 
blow,  and  see  the  mainland  stretch  out  its  jutting 
promontories,  those  sea-noses,  as  the  poet  calls 
them,  into  the  blue  waters  of  the  solemn  ocean. 

The  next  work  to  which  I  would  call  the  atten 
tion  of  my  readers  is  very  remarkable,  both  in  a 
philological  and  in  a  poetical  point  of  view ;  being 
written  in  a  more  ambitious  style  than  Beowulf. 
It  is  Cacdinon's  Paraphrase  of  Portions  of  Holy 
Writ.  Caedmon  was  a  monk  in  the  Minster  of 
AVhitby.  lie  lived  and  died  in  the  seventh  cen 
tury.  The  only  account  we  have  of  his  life  is 
that  given  by  the  Venerable  Bcde  in  his  Eccle 
siastical  History. 

By  some  he  is  called  the  Father  of  Anglo-Saxon 
Poetry,  because  his  name  stands  first  in  the  history 
of  Saxon  song-craft ;  by  others,  the  Milton  of  our 
Forefathers;  because  he  sang  of  Lucifer  and  the 
Loss  of  Paradise. 

The  poem  is  divided  into  two  books.  The  first 
is  nearly  complete,  and  contains  a  paraphrase  of 
parts  of  the  Old  Testament  and  the  Apocrypha, 
The  second  is  so  mutilated  as  to  bo  only  a  series 
of  unconnected  fragments.  It  contains  scenes  from 
die  New  Testament,  and  is  chiefly  occupied  with 
Christ's  descent  into  the  lower  regions ;  a  favorite 
theme  in  old  times,  and  well  known  in  the  history 


ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE.  397 

of  miracle-plays,  as  the  Harrowing  of  Hell.  The 
author  is  a  pious,  prayerful  monk ;  "  an  awful, 
reverend,  and  religious  man."  He  has  all  the 
simplicity  of  a  child.  He  calls  his  Creator  the 
Blithe-heart  King ;  the  patriarchs,  Earls  ;  and  their 
children,  Noblemen.  Abraham  is  a  wise-heedy 
man,  a  guardian  of  bracelets,  a  mighty  earl ;  and 
his  wife  Sarah,  a  woman  of  elfin  beauty.  The 
sons  of  Reuben  are  called  Sea-Pirates.  A  laugher 
is  a  laughter-smith ;  the  Ethiopians,  a  people  brown 
with  the  hot  coals  of  heaven. 

Striking  poetic  epithets  and  passages  are  not 
wanting  in  his  works.  They  are  sprinkled  here 
and  there  throughout  the  narrative.  The  sky  is 
called  the  roof  of  nations,  the  roof  adorned  with 
stars.  After  the  overthrow  of  Pharaoh  and  his 
folk,  he  says,  the  blue  air  was  with  corruption 
tainted,  and  the  bursting  ocean  whooped  a  bloody 
storm.  Nebuchadnezzar  is  described  as  a  naked, 
unwilling  wanderer,  a  wondrous  wretch  and  weed- 
less.  Horrid  ghosts,  swart  and  sinful, 

"  Wide  through  windy  halls 
Wail  woful." 

And,  in  the  sack  of  Sodom,  we  are  told  how  many 
a  fearful,  pale-faced  damsel  must  trembling  go  into 
a  stranger's  embrace ;  and  how  fell  the  defenders 
of  brides  and  bracelets,  sick  with  wounds.  Indeed, 
whenever  the  author  has  a  battle  to  describe,  and 
hosts  of  arm-bearing  and  warfaring  men  draw  from 


398  ANGLO-SAXOX   LITERATURE. 

their  sheaths  the  ring-hiked  sword  of  edges  doughty, 
he  enters  into  the  matter  with  so  much  spirit,  that 
one  almost  imagines  he  sees,  looking  from  under 
that  monkish  cowl,  the  visage  of  no  parish  priest, 
but  of  a  grim  war-wolf,  as  the  great  fighters  were 
called,  in  the  days  when  Caedmon  wrote. 

Such  are  the  two  great  narrative  poems  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon  tongue.  Of  a  third,  a  short  fragment 
remains.  It  is  a  mutilated  thing,  a  mere  torso. 
Judith  of  the  Apocrypha  is  the  heroine.  The  part 
preserved  describes  the  death  of  Holoferues  in  a 
fine,  brilliant  style,  delighting  the  hearts  of  all 
Anglo-Saxon  scholars.  But  a  more  important 
fragment  is  that  on  the  Death  of  Byrhtnoth  at  the 
battle  of  Maldon.  It  savors  of  rust  and  of  anti 
quity,  like  "  Old  Hildebrand"  in  German.  What 
a  fine  passage  is  this,  spoken  by  an  aged  vassal 
over  the  dead  body  of  the  hero,  in  the  thickest  of 
the  fight ! 

u  Byrhtwold  spoke;  he  was  an  aged  vassal;  he  raised 
his  shield;  he  brandished  his  ashen  spear;  he  full  boldly 
exhorted  the  warriors.  '  Our  spirit  shall  be  the  hardier, 
our  heart  shall  be  the  keener,  our  soul  shall  be  the  greater, 
the  more  our  forces  diminish.  Here  lieth  our  chief  all 
mangled ;  the  brave  one  in  the  dust ;  ever  may  he  lament 
his  shame  that  thinketh  to  fly  from  this  play  of  weapons! 
Old  am  I  in  life,  yet  will  I  not  stir  hence ;  but  I  think  to 
lie  by  the  side  of  my  lord,  by  that  much-loved  man ! '  " 

Shorter  than  either  of  these  fragments  is  a  third 
on  the  Fight  of  Finsborough.  Its  chief  value  seems 


ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE.  399 

to  be,  that  it  relates  to  the  same  action  which 
formed  the  theme  of  one  of  Hrothgar's  bards  in 
Beowulf.  In  addition  to  these  narrative  poems 
and  fragments,  there  are  two  others,  founded  on 
lives  of  saints.  They  are  the  Life  and  Passion  of 
St.  Juliana,  and  the  Visions  of  the  Hermit  Guthlac. 

There  is  another  narrative  poem,  which  I  must 
mention  here  on  account  of  its  subject,  though  of 
a  much  later  date  than  the  foregoing.  It  is  the 
Chronicle  of  King  Lear  and  his  Daughters,  in 
Norman-Saxon ;  not  rhymed  throughout,  but  with 
rhymes  too  often  recurring  to  be  accidental.  As  a 
poem,  it  has  no  merit,  but  shows  that  the  story  of 
Lear  is  very  old ;  for,  in  speaking  of  the  old  king's 
death  and  burial,  it  refers  to  a  previous  account, 
"as  the  book  telleth."  Cordelia  is  married  to 
Aganippus,  king  of  France ;  and,  after  his  death, 
reigns  over  England,  though  Maglaudus,  king  of 
Scotland,  declares,  that  it  is  a  "  muckle  shame,  that 
a  queen  should  be  king  in  the  land."  * 

Besides  these  long,  elaborate  poems,  the  Anglo- 
Saxons  had  their  odes  and  ballads.  Thus,  when 
King  Canute  was  sailing  by  the  Abbey  of  Ely,  he 
heard  the  voices  of  the  monks  chanting  their 
vesper  hymn.  Whereupon  he  sang,  in  the  best 
Anglo-Saxon  he  was  master  of,  the  following 
rhyme : — 

*  For  hit  was  swithe  mochel  same, 
and  eke  hit  was  mochel  grame, 
that  a  cwene  soldo 
be  king  in  thisse  land. 


400  ANGLO-SAXON    LITERATURE. 

"  Merie  sungcn  the  muncches  binnen  Ely, 
Tha  Cnut  clung  rcuther  by; 
Roweth,  cnihtes,  noer  the  land, 
And  here  wo  thes  rauneches  sang."  * 

The  best,  and  properly  speaking,  perhaps  the 
only,  Anglo-Saxon  odes,  are  those  preserved  in 
the  Saxon  Chronicle,  in  recording  the  events  they 
celebrate.  They  are  five  in  number  ; — JEthelstan's 
Victory  at  Brunanburh ;  the  Victories  of  Edmund 
JEtheling ;  the  Coronation  of  King  Edgar ;  the  Death 
of  King  Edgar;  and  the  Death  of  King  Edward. 
The  Battle  of  Brunanburh  is  already  pretty  well 
known  by  the  numerous  English  versions,  and 
attempts  thereat,  which  have  been  given  of  it. 
This  ode  is  one  of  the  most  characteristic  speci 
mens  of  Anglo-Saxon  poetry.  What  a  striking 
picture  is  that  of  the  lad  with  flaxen  hair,  mangled 
with  wounds ;  and  of  the  seven  earls  of  Anlaf, 
and  the  five  young  kings,  lying  on  the  battle-field, 
lulled  asleep  by  the  sword !  Indeed,  the  whole 
ode  is  striking,  bold,  graphic.  The  furious  on 
slaught;  the  cleaving  of  the  wall  of  shields;  the 
hewing  down  of  banners ;  the  din  of  the  fight ;  the 
hard  hand-play ;  the  retreat  of  the  Northmen,  in 
nailed  ships,  over  the  stormy  sea ;  and  the  deserted 
dead,  on  the  battle-ground,  left  to  the  swart  raven, 
the  war-hawk,  and  the  wolf; — all  these  image? 

*  Merry  sang  the  monks  in  Ely, 
As  King  Canute  was  steering  by; 
Row,  ye  knights,  near  the  land, 
And  hear  we  these  monks'  song. 


AXGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE.  401 

appeal  strongly  to  the  imagination.  The  bard  has 
nobly  described  this  victory  of  the  illustrious  war- 
smiths,  the  most  signal  victory  since  the  coming  of 
the  Saxons  into  England  ;  so  say  the  books  of  the 
old  wise  men. 

And  here  I  would  make  due  and  honorable 
mention  of  the  Poetic  Calendar,  and  of  King 
Alfred's  Version  of  the  Metres  of  Boethtus.  The 
Poetic  Calendar  is  a  chronicle  of  great  events  in 
the  lives  of  saints,  martyrs,  and  apostles,  referred 
to  the  days  on  which  they  took  place.  At  the  end 
is  a  strange  poem,  consisting  of  a  series  of  aphor 
isms,  not  unlike  those  that  adorn  a  modern  almanac. 

In  addition  to  these  narratives  and  odes  and 
didactic  poems,  there  are  numerous  minor  poems 
on  various  subjects,  some  of  which  have  been  pub 
lished,  though  for  the  most  part  they  still  lie  buried 
in  manuscripts,  —  hymns,  allegories,  doxologies, 
proverbs,  enigmas,  paraphrases  of  the  Lord's  Prayer, 
poems  on  Death  and  the  Day  of  Judgment,  and 
the  like.  A  large  quantity  of  them  is  contained 
in  the  celebrated  Exeter  Manuscript, — a  folio  given 
by  Bishop  Leofric  to  the  Cathedral  of  Exeter  in 
the  eleventh  century,  and  called  by  the  donor,  "  a 
great  English  book  about  everything,  composed  in 
verse."  Among  them  is  a  very  singular  and  strik 
ing  poem,  entitled,  "  The  Soul's  Complaint  against 
the  Body,"  in  which  the  departed  spirit  is  described 
as  returning,  ghastly  and  shrieking,  to  upbraid  the 
body  it  had  left, 


26 


402  ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE, 

"  Much  it  bchovcth 
Each  one  of  mortals, 
That  ho  his  soul's  journey 
In  himself  ponder, 
How  deep  it  may  be. 
When  Death  cometh, 
The  bonds  he  breaketh 
By  which  were  united 
The  soul  and  the  body 

"  Long  it  is  thenceforth 
Ere  the  soul  taketh. 
From  God  himself 
Its  woe  or  its  weal; 
As  in  the  world  erst, 
Even  in  its  earth-vessel, 
It  wrought  before. 

"  The  soul  shall  como 
Wailing  with  loud  voice, 
After  a  sennight, 
The  soul,  to  find 
The  body 

That  it  erst  dwelt  in  ;— 
Three  hundred  winters, 
Unless  ere  that  worketh 
The  Eternal  Lord, 
The  Almighty  God, 
The  end  of  the  world. 

"  Crieth  then,  so  care-worn, 

With  cold  utterance, 

And  speaketh  grimly, 

The  ghost  to  the  dust: 

*  Dry  dust !  thou  dreary  one ! 

How  little  didst  thou  labor  for  mo  I 


ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE.  403 

In  the  foulness  of  earth 
Thou  all  wearest  away 
Like  to  the  loam ! 
Little  didst  thou  think 
How  thy  soul's  journey 
Would  be  thereafter, 
When  from  the  body 
It  should  be  led  forth.'  " 

But  perhaps  the  most  curious  poem  in  the  Exeter 
Manuscript  is  the  Rhyming  Poem,  to  which  I  have 
before  alluded.* 

Still  more  spectral  is  the  following  Norman- 
Saxon  poem,  from  a  manuscript  volume  of  Hom 
ilies  in  the  Bodleian  Library.  The  subject  is  the 
grave.  It  is  Death  that  speaks. 

"  For  thee  was  a  house  built 
Ere  thou  wast  born ; 
For  thee  was  a  mould  meant 
Ere  thou  of  mother  earnest. 
But  it  is  not  made  ready, 
Nor  its  depth  measured, 
Nor  is  it  seen 
How  long  it  shall  be. 
Now  I  bring  thee 
Where  thou  shalt  be. 
Now  I  shall  measure  thee, 
And  the  mould  afterwards. 

"  Thy  house  is  not 
Highly  timbered ; 

*  Since  this  paper  was  written,  the  Exeter  Manuscript  has 
Veen  published,  with  a  translation  by  Mr.  Thorpe. 


404  ANGLO-SAXON    LITKRATURE. 

It  is  unhigh  and  low, 
When  thou  art  therein, 
The  heel-ways  are  low, 
The  side-ways  unhigh; 
The  roof  is  built 
Thy  breast  full  nigh. 
So  thou  shalt  in  mould 
Dwell  full  cold, 
Dimly  and  dark. 

"  Doorless  is  that  house, 
And  dark  it  is  within; 
There  thou  art  fast  detained, 
And  Death  hath  the  key. 
Loathsome  is  that  earth-house, 
And  grim  within  to  dwell; 
There  thou  shalt  dwell, 
And  worms  shall  divide  thee. 

"  Thus  thou  art  laid 

And  leavest  thy  friends ; 

Thou  hast  no  friend 

Who  will  come  to  thee, 

Who  will  ever  see 

How  that  house  pleaseth  thee, 

Who  will  ever  open 

The  door  for  thee, 

And  descend  after  thee ; 

For  soon  thou  art  loathsome 

And  hateful  to  see." 

We  now  come  to  Anglo-Saxon  Prose.  At  tho 
very  boundary  stand  two  great  works,  like  land 
marks.  These  are  the  Saxon  Laws,  promulgated 
by  the  various  kings  that  ruled  the  land ;  and 
the  Saxon  Chronicle,  in  •which  all  great  historic 
events,  from  the  middle  of  the  fifth  to  the  middle 


ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE.  405 

of  the  twelfth  century,  are  recorded  by  contempo 
rary  writers,  mainly,  it  would  seem,  the  monks  of 
Winchester,  Peterborough,  and  Canterbury.*  Set 
ting  these  aside,  doubtless  the  most  important 
remains  of  Anglo-Saxon  prose  are  the  writings  of 
King  Alfred  the  Great. 

What  a  sublime  old  character  was  King  Alfred  ! 
Alfred,  the  Truth-teller  !  Thus  the  ancient  histo 
rian  surnamed  him,  as  others  were  surnamed  the 
Unready,  Ironside,  Harefoot.  The  principal  events 
of  his  life  are  known  to  all  men ; — the  nine  battles 
fought  in  the  first  year  of  his  reign ;  his  flight  to 
the  marshes  and  forests  of  Somersetshire  ;  his  pov 
erty  and  suffering,  wherein  was  fulfilled  the  proph 
ecy  of  St.  Neot,  that  he  should  "  be  bruised  like 
the  ears  of  wheat";  his  life  with  the  swineherd, 
whose  wife  bade  him  turn  the  cakes,  that  they 
might  not  be  burnt,  for  she  saw  daily  that  he  was  a 
great  eater ;  his  successful  rally ;  his  victories,  and 
his  future  glorious  reign  ; — these  things  are  known 
to  all  men.  And  not  only  these,  which  are  events 
in  his  life,  but  also  many  more,  which  are  traits  in 
his  character,  and  controlled  events  ;  as,  for  exam- 


*  The  style  of  this  Chronicle  rises  at  times  far  above  that  of 
most  monkish  historians.  For  instance,  in  recording  the  death 
of  William  the  Conqueror,  the  writer  says:  "Sharp  Death,  that 
passes  by  neither  rich  men  nor  poor,  seized  him  also.  Alas !  how 
false  and  how  uncertain  is  this  world's  weal!  He  that  was 
before  a  rich  king,  and  lord  of  many  lands,  had  not  then  of  all 
his  land  more  than  a  space  of  seven  feet!  and  he  that  was 
whilom  enshrouded  in  gold  and  gems  lay  there  covered  with 
tiould."  A.  D.  1087. 


406  AXGLO-SAXOX    LITERATURE. 

pie,  that  he  was  a  wise  and  virtuous  man,  a  religious 
man,  a  learned  man  for  that  age.  Perhaps  they 
know,  even,  how  he  measured  time  with  his  six 
horn  lanterns;  also,  that  he  was  an  author  and 
wrote  many  books.  But  of  these  books  how  few 
persons  have  read  even  a  single  line  !  And  yet  it 
is  well  worth  our  while,  if  we  wish  to  see  all  the 
calm  dignity  of  that  great  man's  character,  and 
how  in  him  the  scholar  and  the  man  outshone  the 
king.  For  example,  do  we  not  know  him  better, 
and  honor  him  more,  when  we  hear  from  his  own 
lips,  as  it  were,  such  sentiments  as  these  ?  "  God 
has  made  all  men  equally  noble  in  their  original 
nature.  True  nobility  is  in  the  mind,  not  in  the 
flesh.  I  wished  to  live  honorably  whilst  I  lived,  and, 
after  my  life,  to  leave  to  the  men  who  were  after 
me  my  memory  in  good  works ! " 

j  The  chief  writings  of  this  royal  author  are  his 
translations  of  Gregory's  Pastoralis,  Boethius's 
Consolations  of  Philosophy,  Bede's  Ecclesiastical 
History,  and  the  History  of  Orosius,  known  in 
manuscripts  by  the  mysterious  title  of  Hormcsta. 
Of  these  works  the  most  remarkable  is  the  Boethius ; 
so  much  of  his  own  mind  has  Alfred  infused  into  it. 
Properly  speaking,  it  is  not  so  much  a  translation 
as  a  gloss  or  paraphrase ;  for  the  Saxon  king, 
upon  his  throne,  had  a  soul  which  was  near  akin  to 
that  of  the  last  of  the  Roman  philosophers  in  his 
prison.  He  had  suffered,  and  could  sympathize 
with  suffering  humanity.  He  adorned  and  carried 
out  still  further  the  reflections  of  Boelhius.  He 


AXGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE.  407 

oegins  his  task,  however,  with  an  apology,  saying, 
"  Alfred,  king,  was  translator  of  this  book,  and 
turned  it  from  book-Latin  into  English,  as  he  most 
plainly  and  clearly  could,  amid  the  various  and 
manifold  worldly  occupations  which  often  busied 
him  in  mind  and  body  " ;  and  ends  with  a  prayer, 
beseeching  God,  "  by  the  sign  of  the  holy  cross, 
and  by  the  virginity  of  the  blessed  Mary,  and 
by  the  obedience  of  the  blessed  Michael,  and  by 
the  love  of  all  the  saints  and  their  merits,"  that 
his  mind  might  be  made  steadfast  to  the  Divine  will 
and  his  own  soul's  need. 

Other  remains  of  Anglo-Saxon  prose  exist  in  the 
tale  of  Apollonius  of  Tyre ;  the  Bible-translations 
and  Colloquies  of  Abbot  .ZElfric ;  Glosses  of  the 
Gospels,  at  the  close  of  one  of  which  the-conscien- 
tious  scribe  has  written,  "  Aldred,  an  unworthy 
and  miserable  priest,  with  the  help  of  God  and 
St.  Cuthbert,  overglossed  it  in  English " ;  and, 
finally,  various  miscellaneous  treatises,  among  which 
the  most  curious  is  a  Dialogue  between  Saturn  and 
Solomon.  I  cannot  refrain  from  giving  a  few  ex 
tracts  from  this  very  original  and  curious  document, 
which  bears  upon  it  some  of  the  darkest  thumb- 
marks  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

"  Tell  me,  what  man  first  spake  with  a  dog? 
"  I  tell  thee,  Saint  Peter. 

"  Tell  me,  what  man  first  ploughed  the  earth  with  ff 
plough  ? 

"  I  tell  thee,  it  was  Ham,  the  son  of  Xoah. 
"  Tell  me,  wherefore  stones  are  barren  V 


408  ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE. 

"  I  tell  thce,  because  Abel's  blood  fell  upon  a  stone, 
when  Cain  his  brother  slew  him  with  the  jawbone  of  an 


"  Tell  me,  what  made  the  sea  salt  ? 

"  I  tell  thee,  the  ten  commandments  that  Moses  collected 
in  the  old  Law, — the  commandments  of  God.  He  threw 
the  ten  commandments  into  the  sea,  and  he  shed  tears 
into  the  sea,  and  the  sea  became  salt. 

''  Tell  me,  what  man  first  built  a  monastery  ? 

"  I  tell  thce,  Elias,  and  Elisha  the  prophet,  and,  after 
baptism,  Paul  and  Anthony,  the  first  anchorites. 

"  Tell  me,  what  were  the  streams  that  watered  Para 
dise? 

"  I  tell  thee,  they  were  four.  The  first  was  called  Pison; 
the  second,  Geon;  the  third,  Tigris;  the  fourth,  Eu 
phrates  ;  that  is,  milk,  and  honey,  and  ale,  and  wine. 

"  Tell  me,  why  is  the  sun  red  at  evening? 

"  I  tell  thee,  because  he  looks  into  Hell. 

"  Tell  me,  why  shineth  he  so  red  in  the  morning? 

"  I  tell  thee,  because  he  doubteth  whether  he  shall  or 
shall  not  shine  upon  this  earth,  as  he  is  commanded. 

."  Tell  me,  what  four  waters  feed  this  earth? 

"  I  tell  thee,  they  are  snow,  and  rain,  and  hail,  and 
dew. 

"  Tell  me,  who  first  made  letters  ? 

"  I  tell  thee,  Mercury  the  Giant." 

Hardly  less  curious,  and  infinitely  more  valuable, 
is  a  "  Colloquy "  of  ^Elfric,  composed  for  the  pup- 
pose  of  teaching  boys  to  speak  Latin.  The  Saxon 
is  an  interlinear  translation  of  the  Latin.  In  this 
Colloquy  various  laborers  and  handicraftsmen  are 
introduced,  —  ploughmen,  herdsmen,  huntsmen, 
shoemakers,  and  others  ;  and  each  has  his  say,  even 


ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE.  409 

to  the  blacksmith,  who  dwells  in  his  smithy  amid 
iron  fire-sparks  and  the  sound  of  beating  sledge 
hammers  and  blowing  bellows.  I  translate  the 
close  of  this  Colloquy,  to  show  our  readers  what  a 
poor  school-boy  had  to  suffer  in  the  Middle  Ages. 
They  will  hardly  wonder,  that  Erigena  Scot  should 
have  been  put  to  death  with  penknives  by  his 
scholars. 

"  Magister.  Well,  boy,  what  hast  thou  been  doing  to 
day? 

"  Discipulus.  A  great  many  things  have  I  been  doing. 
Last  night,  when  I  heard  the  knell,  I  got  out  of  my  bed 
and  went  into  the  church,  and  sang  the  matin-song  with 
the  friars ;  after  that  we  sang  the  hymn  of  All  Saints,  and 
the  morning  songs  of  praise ;  after  these  Prime,  and  the 
seven  Psalms,  with  the  Litanies  and  the  first  Mass ;  then 
the  nine  o'clock  service,  and  the  Mass  for  the  day,  and 
after  this  we  sang  the  service  of  mid-day,  and  ate  and 
drank,  and  slept,  and  got  up  again,  and  sang  Nones,  and 
now  are  here  before  thee,  ready  to  hear  what  thou  hast  to 
say  to  us. 

"  Mayister.  When  will  you  sing  Vespers  or  the  Com 
pline? 

"  Disc'qyulus.     When  it  is  time. 

"  Magister,    Hast  thou  had  a  whipping  to-day? 

"  Discipulus.  I  have  not,  because  I  have  behaved  very 
warily. 

"  Magisler.    And  thy  playmates  ? 

"  Discipulus.  Why  dost  thou  ask  me  about  them  ?  I 
dare  not  tell  thee  our  secrets.  Each  one  of  them  knows 
whether  he  has  been  whipped  or  not. 

"  Magister.     What  dost  thou  eat  every  day? 

" Discipulus.  I  still  eat  meat,  because  I  am  a  child, 
•iving  under  the  rod. 


410  ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE. 


What  else  dost  thou  eat? 

"  Dlscipulus.  Greens  and  eggs,  fish  and  cheese,  butter 
*id  beans,  and  all  clean  things,  with  much  thankful- 
teas. 

"  Magister.  Exceedingly  voracious  artthou;  for  thou 
levourest  every  thing  that  is  set  before  thee. 

"  Dlscipulus.  Not  so  very  voracious  either,  for  I  don't 
eat  all  kinds  of  food  at  one  meal. 

"  Magitter.    How  then  ? 

"  Discipulus.  Sometimes  I  eat  one  kind,  and  sometimes 
another,  with  soberness,  as  becomes  a  monk,  and  not 
with  voracity;  for  I  am  not  a  glutton. 

"  Jfayister.     And  what  dost  thou  drink? 

"  Disupulus.  Beer,  when  I  can  get  it,  and  water  when 
1  cannot  get  beer. 

"  Magister.     Dost  thou  not  drink  wine? 

"  Disctpultts.  I  am  not  rich  enough  to  buy  wine  ;  and 
wine  is  not  a  drink  for  boys  and  ignorant  people,  but  for 
old  men  and  wise. 

"  Mnyister.    Where  dost  thou  sleep? 

"  Discipulus.    In  the  dormitory,  with  the  friars. 

"  ^f(lgi$ter.    Who  wakes  thee  for  matins? 

"  Discij>ulus.  Sometimes  I  hear  the  knell  and  get  up  ; 
sometimes  my  master  wakes  me  sternly  with  a  rod. 

"  jfayister.  0  ye  good  children,  and  winsome  learners  ! 
1'our  teacher  admonishes  you  to  follow  godly  lo£%-fttid  to 
Dehuve  yourselves  decently  everywhere.  Go  obediently, 
when  you  hear  the  chapel  bell,  enter  into  the  chapel,  and 
bow  suppliantly  at  the  holy  altars,  and  stand  submissive, 
and  sing  with  one  accord,  and  pray  for  your  sins,  and 
then  depart  to  the  cloister  or  tho  school-room  without 
levity." 

I  cannot  close  this  sketch  of  Anglo-Saxon  Liter 
ature  without  expressing  the  hope,  that  what  I 
have  written  may  "  stir  up  riper  wits  than  mine  to 


ANGLO-SAXON   LITERATURE.  411 

the  perfection  of  this  rough-hewn  work."  The 
history  of  this  literature  still  remains  to  be  written. 
How  strange  it  is  that  so  interesting  a  subject  should 
wait  so  lon£  for  its  historian ! 


PARIS   IN  THE    SEVENTEENTH 
CENTURY. 

1838. 

THE  age  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth  is  one  of  the 
most  brilliant  in  history ;  illustrious  by  its  reign  of 
seventy-two  years  and  its  hundred  authors  known 
to  fame.  The  government  of  this  monarch  has 
been  called  "  a  satire  upon  despotism."  His  vanity 
was  boundless  :  his  magnificence  equally  so.  The 
palaces  of  Marly  and  Versailles  are  monuments  of 
his  royal  pride  :  Equestrian  statues,  and  his  figure 
on  one  of  the  gates  of  Paris,  represented  as  a  naked 
Hercules,  with  a  club  in  his  hand  and  a  flowing 
wig  on  his  head,  are  monuments  of  his  vanity  and 
Belf-esteem. 

His  court  was  the  home  of  etiquette  and  the 
model  of  all  courts.  "  It  seemed,"  says  Voltaire, 
"  that  Nature  at  that  time  took  delight  in  producing 
in  France  the  greatest  men  in  all  the  arts ;  and  of 
assembling  at  court  the  most  beautiful  men  and 
women  that  had  ever  existed.  But  the  king  bore 
the  palm  away  from  all  his  courtiers  by  the  grace 
of  his  figure  and  the  majestic  beauty  of  his  counte 
nance  ;  the  noble  and  winning  sound  of  his  voice 


PARIS  IN  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY.  413 

gained  over  the  hearts  that  his  presence  intimidated. 
His  carriage  was  such  as  became  him  and  his  rank 
only,  and  would  have  been  ridiculous  in  any  other. 
The  embarrassment  he  inspired  in  those  who  spoke 
with  him  flattered  in  secret  the  self-complacency 
with  which  he  recognized  his  own  superiority.  The 
old  officer,  who  became  agitated  and  stammered  in 
asking  a  favor  from  him,  and,  not  being  able  to 
finish  his  discourse,  exclaimed,  '  Sire,  I  do  not 
tremble  so  before  your  enemies  ! '  had  no  difficulty 
in  obtaining  the  favor  he  asked." 

All  about  him  was  pomp  and  theatrical  show. 
He  invented  a  kind  of  livery,  which  it  was  held  the 
greatest  honor  to  wear ;  a  blue  waistcoat  embroid 
ered  with  gold  and  silver; — a  mark  of  royal  favor. 
To  all  around  him  he  was  courteous ;  towards 
women  chivalrous.  He  never  passed  even  a 
chamber-maid  without  touching  his  hat ;  and  always 
stood  uncovered  in  the  presence  of  a  lady.  When 
the  disappointed  Duke  of  Lauzun  insulted  him  by 
breaking  his  sword  in  his  presence,  he  raised  the 
window,  and  threw  his  cane  into  the  court-yard, 
saying,  "  I  never  should  have  forgiven  myself  if  I 
had  struck  a  gentleman." 

He  seems,  indeed,  to  have  been  a  strange  mixture 
of  magnanimity  and  littleness; — his  gallantries 
veiled  always  in  a  show  of  decency ;  severe ;  ca 
pricious  ;  fond  of  pleasure ;"  hardly  less  fond  of 
labor.  One  day  we  find  him  dashing  from  Vin- 
cennes  to  Paris  in  his  hunting-dress,  and  standing 
in  his  great  boots,  with  a  whip  in  his  hand,  dis- 


414     PARIS  IN  TIIE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY. 

missing  his  parliament  as  be  would  a  pack  of 
hounds.  The  next  he  is  dancing  in  the  ballet  of 
his  private  theatre,  in  the  character  of  a  gypsy,  and 
whistling  or  singing  scraps  of  opera  songs;  and 
then  parading  at  a  military  review,  or  galloping  ut 
full  speed  through  the  park  of  Fontainebleau,  hunt 
ing  the  deer,  in  a  calash  drawn  by  four  ponies. 
Towards  the  close  of  his  life  he  became  a  devotee. 
"It  is  a  very  remarkable  thing,"  says  Voltaire, 
"  that  the  public,  who  forgave  him  all  his  mistresses, 
could  not  forgive  him  his  father  confessor."  He 
outlived  the  respect  of  his  subjects.  When  he  lay 
on  his  death-bed, — those  godlike  eyes  that  had 
overawed  the  world  now  grown  dim  and  lustre 
less, — all  his  courtiers  left  him  to  die  alone,  and 
thronged  about  his  successor,  the  Duke  of  Orleans. 
An  empiric  gave  him  an  elixir,  which  suddenly  re 
vived  him.  He  ate  once  more,  and  it  was  said  he 
could  recover.  The  crowd  about  the  Duke  of  Or 
leans  diminished  very  fast.  "  If  the  king  eats  a 
second  time,  I  shall  be  left  all  alone,"  said  he.  But 
the  king  ate  no  more.  He  died  like  a  philosopher. 
To  Madame  de  Maintenon  he  said,  "  I  thought  it 
was  more  difficult  to  die ! "  and  to  his  domestics, 
"  Why  do  you  weep  ?  Did  you  think  I  was  im 
mortal  ?  " 

Of  course  the  character  of  the  monarch  stamped 
itself  upon  the  society -about  him.  The  licentious 
court  made  a  licentious  city.  Yet  everywhere 
external  decency  and  decorum  prevailed.  The 
courtesy  of  the  old  school  held  sway.  Society, 


PARIS  IN  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY.    415 

moreover,  was  pompous  and  artificial.  There  were 
pedantic  scholars  about  town ;  and  learned  women ; 
and  Precieuscs  Ridicules,  and  Euphuism.  With  all 
its  greatness,  it  was  an  effeminate  age. 

The  old  city  of  Paris,  which  lies  in  the  Marais, 
was  once  the  court  end  of  the  town.  It  is  now  en 
tirely  deserted  by  wealth  and  fashion.  Travellers 
even  seldom  find  their  way  into  its  broad  and  silent 
streets.  But  sightly  mansions  and  garden  walls, 
over  which  tall,  shadowy  trees  wave  to  and  fro, 
speak  of  a  more  splendid  age,  when  proud  and 
courtly  ladies  dwelt  there,  and  the  frequent  wheels 
of  gay  equipages  chafed  the  now  grass-grown  pave 
ments. 

In  the  centre  of  this  part  of  Paris,  within  pistol- 
shot  of  the  Boulevard  St.  Antoinc,  stands  the  Place 
Royale.  Old  palaces  of  a  quaint  and  uniform  style, 
with  a  low  arcade  in  front,  run  quite  round  the 
square.  In  its  centre  is  a  public  walk,  with  trees, 
an  iron  railing,  and  an  equestrian  statue  of  Louis 
the  Thirteenth.  It  was  here  that  monarch  held  his 
court.  But  there  is  no  sign  of  a  court  now.  Under 
the  arcade  are  shops  and  fruit-stalls ;  and  in  one 
corner  sits  a  cobbler,  seemingly  as  old  and  deaf  as 
the  walls  arotfnd  him.  Occasionally  you  get  a 
glimpse  through  a  grated  gate  into  spacious  gardens ; 
and  a  large  flight  of  steps  leads  up  into  what  was 
once  a  royal  palace,  and  is  now  a  tavern.  In  the 
public  walk  old  gentlemen  sit  under  the  trees  on 
benches,  and  enjoy  the  evening  air.  Others  walk 
up  and  down,  buttoned  in  long  frock-coats.  They 


416     PARIS  IX  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY. 

have  all  a  provincial  look.  Indeed,  for  a  time  you 
imagine  yourself  in  a  small  French  to\vn,  not  in 
Paris;  so  different  is  every  thing  there  from  the 
Paris  you  live  in.  You  are  in  a  quarter  where 
people  retire  to  live  genteelly  on  small  incomes. 
The  gentlemen  in  long  frock-coats  are  no  courtiers, 
but  retired  tradesmen. 

"  Not  far  off  is  the  Rue  des  Tournelles ;  and  the 
house  is  still  standing  in  which  lived  and  loved  that 
Aspasiaof  the  seventeenth  century, — the  celebrated 
Ninon  de  1'Enclos.  From  the  Boulevard  you  look 
down  into  the  garden,  where  her  illegal  and  ill-fated 
son,  on  discovering  that  the  object  of  his  passion 
was  his  own  mother,  put  an  end  to  his  miserable  life. 
Not  very  remote  from  this  is  the  house  once  occu 
pied  by  Madame  de  Scvigne'.  You  are  shown  the 
very  cabinet  where  she  composed  those  letters 
which  beautified  her  native  tongue,  and  "  make  us 
love  the  very  ink  that  wrote  them."  In  a  word, 
you  are  here  in  the  centre  of  the  Pans  of  the  seven 
teenth  century ;  the  gay,  the  witty,  the  licentious 
city,  which  in  Louis  the  Fourteenth's  time  was  like 
Athens  in  the  age  of  Pericles.  And  now  all  is 
changed  to  solitude  and  silence.  The  witty  age, 
with  its  brightness  and  licentious  heat,  all  burnt 
out, — puffed  into  darkness  by  the  breath  of  time. 
Thus  passes  an  age  of  libertinism  and  sedition,  and 
bloody  frivolous  wars,  and  fighting  bishops,  and  de 
vout  prostitutes,  and  "factious  beaux  csprils  impre 
ssing  epigrams  in  the  midst  of  seditions,  and 
madrigals  on  the  field  of  battle." 


PARIS  IN  THE  SEVENTEENTH  CENTURY.  417 

Westward  from  this  quarter,  near  the  Seine  and 
the  Louvre,  stood  the  ever  famous  Hotel  de  Ram- 
bouillet,  the  court  of  Euphuism  and  false  taste. 
Here  Catherine  de  Vivonne,  Marchioness  of  Ram- 
bouillet,  gave  her  cesthetical  soirees  in  her  bed 
chamber,  and  she  herself  in  bed,  among  the  cur 
tains  and  mirrors  of  a  gay  alcove.  The  master  of 
ceremonies  bore  the  title  of  the  Alcoviste.  He  did 
the  honors  of  the  house  and  directed  the  conversa 
tion  ;  and  such  was  the  fashion  of  the  day,  that,  im 
possible  as  it  may  seem  to  us,  no  evil  tongue  soiled 
with  malignant  whisper  the  fair  fame  of  the  Pre- 
cieuses,  as  the  ladies  of  the  society  were  called. 

Into  this  bed-chamber  came  all  the  most  noted 
literary  personages  of  the  day ; — Corneille,  Mal- 
herbe,  Bossuet,  Flechier,  La  Rochefoucault,  Balzac, 
Bussy-Rabutin,  Madame  de  Sevigne,  Mademoiselle 
de  Scuderi,  and  others  of  less  note,  though  hardly 
less  pretension.  They  paid  their  homage  to  the 
Marchioness,  under  the  title  of  Arthenice,  Era- 
cinthe,  and  Corinthe'e,  anagrams  of  the  name  of 
Catherine.  There,  as  in  the  Courts  of  Love  of  a 
still  earlier  age,  were  held  grave  dissertations  on 
frivolous  themes  ;  and  all  the  metaphysics  of  love, 
and  the  subtilties  of  exaggerated  passion,  were  dis- 
c-issed  with  most  puerile  conceits  and  a  vapid  sen 
timentality.  "  We  saw,  not  long  since,"  says  La 
Bruyere,  "  a  circle  of  persons  of  the  two  sexes, 
united  by  conversation  and  mental  sympathy. 
They  left  to  the  vulgar  the  art  of  speaking  intel 
ligibly.  One  obscure  expression  brought  on  an- 

VOL.  i.  27 


418     PARIS    IN    TIIE    SEVENTEENTH    CEN'TUllY. 

other  still  more  obscure,  which  in  turn  was  capped 
by  something  truly  enigmatical,  attended  with  vast 
applause.  With  all  this  so-called  delicacy,  feeling, 
and  refinement  of  expression,  they  at  length  went 
so  far  that  they  were  neither  understood  by  others 
nor  could  understand  themselves.  For  these  con 
versations  one  needed  neither  good  sense,  nor 
memory,  nor  the  least  capacity ;  only  esprit,  and 
that  not  of  the  best,  but  a  counterfeit  kind,  made 
up  chiefly  of  imagination." 

Looking  back  from  the  present  age,  how  very 
absurd  all  these  things  seem  to  us  !  Nevertheless, 
the  minds  of  some  excellent  men  were  seriously 
impressed  with  their  worth  ;  and  the  pulpit-orator, 
Ficchier,  in  his  funeral  oration  upon  the  death  of 
Madame  do  Montausier,  exclaimed,  in  pious  enthu 
siasm:  "Remember,  my  brethren,  those  cabinets 
which  are  still  regarded  with  so  much  veneration, 
where  the  mind  was  purified,  where  virtue  was 
revered  under  the  name  of  the  incomparable 
Arthcniee,  where  were  gathered  together  so  many 
personages  of  quality  and  merit,  forming  a  select 
court,  numerous  without  confusion,  modest  without 
constraint,  learned  without  pride,  polished  without 
iflfectation." 


DANTE. 

1838. 

THE  earliest  of  the  Italian  poets  is  Ciullo  d'  Al- 
camo,  the  Sicilian,  who  lived  at  the  close  of  the 
twelfth  century.  From  his  day  to  that  of  Dante, 
flourished  some  thirty  rhyme-smiths,  among  whom 
Brunetto  Latini  wrote  the  most,  and  Beato  Bene- 
detti,  Guido  Guiuicelli,  and  Fra  Guittone  d'  Arezzo 
the  best.  Beato  Benedetti  is  the  reputed  author  of 
the  beautiful  Latin  hymn  of  "  Stabat  Mater ; "  and 
Guido  Guinicelli  is  the  bard  whom  Dante  eulo 
gizes  as  the  writer  of 

"  Those  dulcet  lays,  all  which,  as  long 
As  of  our  tongue  the  beauty  does  not  fade, 
Shall  make  us  love  the  very  ink  that  wrote  them." 

The  age  of  Dante  was  an  age  of  violence,  when 
the  law  of  force  prevailed.  The  Florentines  were 
an  heroic  people.  They  declared  war  by  sending 
a  bloody  glove  to  their  enemy ;  and  the  onset  of 
battle  was  sounded,  not  by  the  blast  of  trumpets, 
but  by  the  ringing  of  a  great  bell,  which  was 
wheeled  about  the  field.  Florence  was  then  a 
republic.  So  were  all  the  neighbouring  states. 


420  DANTE. 

The  spirit  of  liberty  was  wild,  not  easily  tamed, 
not  easily  subjected  to  laws.  Amid  civil  discords, 
family  feuds,  tavern  quarrels,  street  broils,  and  the 
disaffection  of  the  poor  towards  the  rich,  it  was  in 
vain  for  Fra  Giovanni  to  preach  the  "  Kiss  of 
Peace."  Buondelmoute  was  dragged  from  his 
horse  and  murdered  at  the  base  of  Mars's  statue, 
in  broad  day ;  Ricoverino  de'  Cerchi  had  his  nose 
cut  off  in  a  ball-room  ;  and  the  exile  of  Dante  can 
be  traced  back  to  a  drunken  quarrel  between  God 
frey  Cancellieri  and  his  cousin  Amadoro  in  a  tavern 
at  Pistoja. 

The  pride  of  human  intellect  in  that  age  was 
displayed  in  the  scholastic  philosophy.  Peter  Lom 
bard,  the  Wise  Master  of  Sentences,  had  been 
mouldering  in  his  grave  just  one  hundred  years 
when  Dante  was  born;  and  the  mystic  poet  was 
still  a  child,  when  the  Angelic  Doctor,  Thomas 
Aquinas, — called  by  his  schoolmates,  at  Cologne, 
the  Dumb  Ox, — having  at  length  fulfilled  the 
prophecy  of  his  master,  Albertus  Magnus,  and 
given  "  such  a  bellow  in  learning  as  was  heard  all 
over  the  world,"  had  fallen  asleep  hi  the  Cister 
cian  convent  at  Terracina,  saying,  "This  is  my 
rest  for  ages  without  end."  These  great  masters 
were  gone ;  but  others  had  arisen  to  take  their 
places,  and  to  teach  that  the  true  religion  is  the 
true  philosophy,  and  the  true  philosophy  the  true 
religion.  Among  these  were  Henry  of  Gothiils, 
the  Doctor  Solemnis,  and  Richard  of  Middle  town, 
the  Doctor  Solid irt  afiu  Giles  of  Cologne,  the  Doc- 


DANTE.  421 

wr  Fundatissimus,  and  John  Duns  Scotus,  the  Doc 
tor  Subiilis  and  founder  of  the  Formalists, — who 
taught  that  the  end  of  philosophy  is,  to  find  out  the 
quiddity  of  things, — that  every  thing  has  a  kind  ot 
quiddity  or  quidditive  existence, — and  that  noth 
ingness  is  divided  into  absolute  nothingness,  which 
has  no  quiddity  or  thingness,  and  relative  nothing 
ness,  which  has  no  existence  out  of  the  understand 
ing.  Side  by  side  with  these  stood  Raymond  Lully, 
the  Doctor  Illuminatus,  and  Francis  of  Mayence, 
the  Magister  Acutus  Abstractionism,  and  William 
Durand,  the  Doctor  Resolutissimus,  and  Walter 
Burleigh,  the  Doctor  Planus  et  Perspicuus,  and 
William  Occam,  the  Doctor  Invincibilis,  Singularis, 
et  Venerdb'dis.  These  were  men  of  acute  and  mas 
culine  intellect : 

"  For  in  those  dark  and  iron  days  of  old, 

Arose,  amid  the  pigmies  of  their  age, 
Minds  of  a  massive  and  gigantic  mould,    . 

Whom  we  must  measure  as  the  Cretan  sage 
Measured  the  pyramids  of  ages  past, 
By  the  far-reaching  shadows  that  they  cast." 

These  philosophic  studies  are  here  alluded  to  bo 
cause  they  exercised  a  powerful  influence  upon  the 
poetry  of  Dante  and  of  his  age.  As  we  look  back  /"•  - 
upon  that  age  with  reference  to  the  theme  before 
us,  from  the  confused  grouping  of  history  a  few 
figures  stand  forth  in  stronger  light  and  shade. 
The  first  is  a  tall,  thin  personage,  clothed  in  black. 
His  face  is  that  of  a  scholar ;  his  manners  are  grave 


422  DANTE. 

and  modest ,  he  has  a  pleasant,  humorous  mouth, 
and  a  jesting  eye,  which  somewhat  temper  his  mod 
est  gravity.  In  his  whole  appearance  there  is  a 
strange  mixture  of  the  schoolmaster,  philosopher, 
and  notary  public.  He  has  been  a  traveller,  and  a 
soldier,  and  the  author  of  much  rhyme.  He  fought 
in  the  campaign  of  Siena,  and,  after  the  war,  wrote 
with  his  own  hand  the  treaty  of  peace  between  the 
two  republics,  which,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  was  better 
written  than  his  rhymes.  This  is  Brunetto  Latiui, 
the  instructor  of  Dante  in  his  youth, — who  rewards 
his  services  with  a  place  in  the  "  Inferno," — gram 
marian,  theologian,  politician,  poet,  and  Grand- 
Master  of  Rhetoric  in  Florence.  His  principal 
work  is  the  poem  of  the  "  Tesoro,"  which  he  wrote 
in  France  and  in  the  French  language.  It  is  a 
kind  of  doggerel  encyclopaedia,  containing,  among 
other  matters,  the  History  of  the  Old  and  New 
Testament,  to  which  is  appended  an  abridgment 
of  Pliny's  "  Natural  History,"  the  "  Ethics "  of 
Aristotle,  and  a  treatise  on  the  Virtues  and  Vices ; 
together  with  the  Art  of  speaking  with  Propriety, 
and  the  Manner  of  governing  the  Republic  !  He 
wrote,  likewise,  a  poem  called  the  "  Tesoretto," — 
a  small  treasury  of  moral  precepts ;  also  a  satirical 
poem  called  "  II  Pataffio,"  in  the  vulgar  Florentine 
street-jargon,  very  difficult  of  comprehension. 

He  is  followed  by  a  nobler  figure  ;  a  youth  of 
beautiful  but  melancholy  countenance,  courteous 
in  manner,  yet  proud  and-  solitary.  He  seems 
lost  in  thought,  and  is  much  alone  among  the  old 


DANTE.  423 

tombs, — the  marble  sepulchres  about  the  church 
of  St.  John.  In  vain  do  Betto  Bruneleschi  and 
his  boon  companions  come  dashing  up  on  horse 
back,  and  make  a  jest  of  his  dreams  and  reveries. 
He  turns  away  and  disappears  among  the  tombs. 
This  is  Guido  Cavalcanti,  the  bosom  friend  of 
Dante,  and  no  mean  poet.  But  he  loves  the 
dreams  of  philosophy  better  than  the  dreams  of 
poetry,  and  the  popular  belief'  is,  that  all  his 
solitary  studies  and  meditations  have  no  other 
object  than  to  prove  that  there  is  no  God.  It  is 
of  this  Guido  that  the  poet  speaks  in  the  tenth 
canto  of  the  "  Inferno,"  where  a  form  looks  out 
of  its  fiery  sepulchre  and  asks,  "  Where  is  my 
son  ?  and  why  is  he  not  with  thee  ?  " 

And  now,  attended  by  two  courtly  dames,  a 
maiden  clad  in  white  approaches.  She  is  veiled  ; 
but  from  beneath  the  veil  look  forth  soft  emerald 
eyes, — eyes  of  the  color  of  the  sea.*  Well  might 

it  be  said  of  her, 

'•  An  eagle 
Hath  not  so  green,  so  quick,  so  fair  an  eye." 

So  beautiful  is  she,  that  many  in  the  crowd  ex 
claim,  as  she  passes,  "  This  is  no  mortal,  but  one 
of  God's  angels."  And  this  is  Beatrice  ;  and  she 
walks  all  crowned  and  garmented  with  humility, 
showing  no  vainglory  of  that  which  she  beholds 
and  hears.f 

*  Erano  i  suoi  occhi  d'  un  turchino  verdiccio,  simile  a  quel 
del  mare. — LAM,  Annotazioni. 

tElla,  coronata,  e  vestita  d'  umilti,  s'  andava,  nulla  gloria 
toostraudo  di  cio  ch'  ella  vedeva  ed  udiva. — DANTE,  Vita  Nuova. 


424  DANTE. 

The  figure  that  advances  to  meet  her  is  that 
of  a  young  man  of  middle  stature,  with  a  dark, 
melancholy,  .thoughtful  face.  His  eyes  are  large, 
his  nose  aquiline,  his  lower  lip  projecting,  his  hair 
and  beard  thick,  black,  and  curled.  His  step  is 
quiet  and  solemn.  He  is  clothed  in  long,  flowing 
garments,  and  wears  sandals  on  his  feet,  and  on 
his  head  a  cap,  from  which  two  broad  bands 
descend  upon  the  shoulders.  This  is  Dante. 

But  the  crowd  throng  around  us,  and  we  behold 
but  indistinctly  the  shadowy  images  of  Guido 
Novello,  and  Francesco  Malaspina,  and  the  great 
Lombard,  Can  Grande  della  Scala,  and  Giano 
della  Bella,  the  friend  of  the  Florentine  populace ; 
and  the  superb  Philippe  Argenti,  his  horse's  hoofs 
shod  with  silver ;  and  Corso,  Donati  the  proud, 
bad  man,  but  valiant  cavalier  and  eloquent  orator, 
dragged  at  his  horse's  heels,  and  murdered  at  the 
gate  of  a  convent;  and  Monferrato,  exposed,  like 
a  wild  beast,  in  a  wooden  cage  in  the  market-place, 
and  dying  broken-hearted  with  rage  and  humilia 
tion. 

Dante  was  the  son  of  Alighiero  degli  Alighieri, 
and  was  christened  in  the  church  of  Saint  John 
the  Baptist  by  the  name  of  Durante ;  which  name 
was  playfully  changed  in  childhood  to  Dante.  Ho 
was  born  at  Florence,  in  May,  12G5,  and  died  at 
Ravenna,  in  September,  1321. 

The  life  of  Dante  naturally  divides  itself  into 
three  epochs,  each  of  which  is  very  distinctly 
marked.  The  first  is  that  of  his  early  youth,— 


DANTE.  425 

from  his  birth  to  the  time  when  Beatrice  died ; — . 
a  period  of  twenty-five  years.  The  second,  his 
public  and  political  life  ; — a  period  of  twelve  years, 
in  the  prime  of  early  manhood,  from  the  age  of 
twenty-five  to  that  of  thirty-seven,  when  he  was 
banished  from  Florence.  And  the  third,  his  exile, 
and  wanderings,  and  death ; — a  period  of  nine 
teen  years ;  namely,  from  the  age  of  thirty-seven 
to  that  of  fifty-six. 

What  Dante's  youth  was  we  know  from  his  own 
lips,  and  from  the  busy  pens  of  many  biographers. 
It  was  a  quiet,  peaceful  youth,  passed  in  the  study 
of  philosophy,  and  music,  and  painting,  and  poetry ; 
and  in  the  companionship  of  learned  men  and 
artists,  such  as  Latini,  Cavalcante,  Giotto,  and 
Casella.  Into  this,  perhaps,  sober-colored  warp 
of  life  was  early  woven  the  bright,  dream-like 
figure  of  Beatrice.  As  he  himself  tells  us,  he  had 
not  yet  completed  his  ninth  year  when  he  beheld 
her  for  the  first  time ;  and  to  use  his  own  words, 
"The  spirit  of  life,  that  dwelleth  in  the  most 
secret  chambers  of  the  heart,  all-trembling,  spake 
these  words :  '  Behold  a  god  more  powerful  than 
I ! ' "  Boccaccio  says  that  this  was  at  a  May-day 
festival, — "  in  that  season,  when  the  mildness  of 
heaven  reclothes  the  earth  with  its  own  ornaments, 
and  all  with  manifold  flowers  mingled  among  the 
verdant  leaves  maketh  her  to  laugh."  * 

*Nel  tempo,  nel  quale  la  dolcezza  del  cielo  riveste  do'  suoi 
?rnamenti  la  terra,  e  tutta  per  la  varieU  de'  fiori  mescolati  tra 
fe  verdi  frondi  la  fa  ridente. —  Vita  di  Dante. 


426  DANTE. 

Beatrice  died  in  youth.  She  had  not  yet  com 
pleted  her  twenty-fourth  year.*  Soon  afterwards, 
Dante  was  unhappily  married  to  Madonna  Gemma 
de'  Donati. 

Such  was  the  first  epoch  of  Dante's  life.  The 
second,  which  embraces  his  public  and  political 
career,  was  as  full  of  trouble  as  the  first  was  full 
of  peace.  Now  came  the  clash  of  parties,  and 
the  battles  of  Campaldino  and  Pisa,  and  the 
fourteen  embassies  treading  close  upon  each  other's 
heels.  So  much  astir  were  all  men,  and  Dante,  in 
the  midst  of  all,  so  busy  with  the  affairs  of  state, 
so  necessary  at  home  and  abroad, — that  he  ex 
claims,  despairing  of  the  power  of  others  to 
govern  the  republic, — "  If  I  stay,  who  is  there 
to  go  ?  If  I  go,  who  is  there  to  stay  ?  " 

It  was  on  one  of  these  political  pilgrimages  that 
he  left  Florence  for  Rome,  never  more  to  enter 
the  gates  of  his  native  city.  They  were  closed 
against  him  forever.  But  in  the  words  of  Michel 
Angelo, 

"  Heaven  unbarred  to  him  her  lofty  gates 
To  whom  his  country  hers  refused  to  ope." 

Being  at  Rome,  he  heard  the  sentence  pronounced 
against  him  ;  perpetual  exile,  confiscation  of  his 
property,  and  death  by  fire,  should  he  ever  again 
set  foot  in  Florence. 

•Boccaccio  says  that  Beatrice  was  married  to  Siiuone  de' 
Bardi;  and  of  Dante's  marriage  he  says:  0  inconceivable 
torture !  to  live,  and  converse,  and  grow  old,  and  die  with  sucb 
»  jealous  creature!" 


DANTE.  427 

Thus,  in  the  life  of  Dante,  closes  the  second 
epoch,  and  the  third  begins ; — a  long  and  sorrowful 
period  of  nineteen  years,  closing  with  his  death. 
The  prior  of  Florence  was  now  a  poor  and  home 
less  man.  The  companion  of  the  rich  and  great 
was  now  their  pensioner.  Their  roofs  sheltered 
him, — their  hands  gave  him  bread.  Well  might 
he  exclaim,  in  piteous  accents, — "  I  am  sorry  for 
all  who  suffer;  but  I  have  greater  pity  for  those 
who,  being  in  exile,  behold  their  native  land  in 
dreams  only."  One  may  easily  believe,  that  to  the 
lips  of  those  "  who  have  drunk  the  waters  of  the 
Arno  before  they  had  teeth,"  the  waters  of  all  other 
streams  would  have  a  bitter  taste. 

We  need  not  follow  the  poet  in  his  wanderings, 
blown  to  and  fro  "  by  the  sharp  wind  that  springs 
from  sad  poverty."  There  are,  however,  one  or 
two  scenes  in  this  last  mournful  period  of  his  life, 
which  cannot  be  passed  over  in  silence.  They 
are  too  striking  and  characteristic,  not  to  find  a 
place  here.  The  first  is  an  interview  of  the 
exiled  poet  with  Frate  Ilario  in  the  convent  of 
the  Corvo.  These  are  the  monk's  own  words, 
as  he  wrote  them  down  at  the  tune,  in  a  letter 
to  Uguccione  della  Faggiuola,  one  of  Dante's  fast 
and  faithful  friends. 

"  Hither  he  came,  passing  through  the  diocese 
of  Luni,  moved  either  by  the  religion  of  the  place, 
or  by  some  other  feeling.  And  seeing  him,  as 
yet  unknown  to  me  and  to  all  my  brethren,  I 
questioned  him  of  his  wishings  and  his  seekings 


428  DANTE. 

there.  He  moved  not;  but  stood  silently  con 
templating  the  columns  and  arches  of  the  cloister. 
And  again  I  asked  him  what  he  wished  and  whom 
he  sought.  Then,  slowly  turning  his  head,  and 
looking  at  the  friars  and  at  me,  he  answered : 
*  Pace  I '  Thence  kindling  more  and  more  the 
wish  to  know  him  and  who  he  might  be,  I  led  him 
aside  somewhat,  and,  having  spoken  a  few  words 
with  him,  I  knew  him ;  for  although  I  had  never 
seen  him  till  that  hour,  his  fame  had  long  since 
reached  me.  And  when  he  saw  that  I  hung  upon 
his  countenance,  and  listened  to  him  with  strange 
affection,  he  drew  from  his  bosom  a  book,  did 
gently  open  it,  and  offered  it  to  me,  saying :  *  Sir 
Friar,  here  is  a  portion  of  my  work,  which  perad- 
venture  thou  hast  not  seen.  This  remembrance  I 
leave  with  thce.  Forget  me  not'  And  when  he 
had  given  me  the  book,  I  pressed  it  gratefully  to 
my  bosom,  and  in  his  presence  fixed  my  eyes  upon 
it  with  great  love.  But  I  beholding  there  the 
vulgar  tongue,  and  showing  by  the  fashion  of  my 
countenance  my  wonderment  thereat,  he  asked 
the  reason  of  the  same.  I  answered,  that  I  mar 
velled  he  should  sing  in  that  language ;  for  it 
seemed  a  difficult  tiling,  nay,  incredible,  that  thoso 
most  high  conceptions  could  be  expressed  in 
common  language ;  nor  did  it  seem  to  me  right 
that  such  and  so  worthy  a  science  should  be 
clothed  in  such  plebeian  garments.  'You  think 
aright,'  he  said,  *  and  I  myself  ha  ve  thought  so. 
And  when  at  first  the  seeds  of  these  matters, 


DANTE.  429 

perhaps  inspired  by  Heaven,  began  to  bud,  I 
chose  that  language  which  was  most  worthy  of 
them  :  and  not  alone  chose  it,  but  began  forthwith 
to  poetize  therein,  after  this  wise  : 

••'  Ultima  regna  canam  fluido  contermina  mundo, 
Spiritibus  quoe  lata  patent;  quse  prsemia  solvunt 
Pro  mentis  cuicumque  suis." 

But  when  I  recalled  the  condition  of  the  present 
age,  and  saw  the  songs  of  the  illustrious  poets 
esteemed  almost  as  naught,  and  knew  that  the 
generous  men,  for  whom  in  better  days  these  things 
were  written,  had  abandoned,  ah  me  !  the  liberal 
arts  unto  vulgar  hands,  I  threw  aside  the  delicate 
lyre,  which  had  armed  my  flank,  and  attuned 
another  more  befitting  the  ear  of  moderns ; — for  the 
food  that  is  hard  we  hold  in  vain  to  tlie  mouths  of 
sucklings.' "  — -/-- 

And  not  less  striking  is  the  closing  scene  of  that 
eventful  life;  when,  his  work  on  earth  accom 
plished,  the  great  poet  lay  down  to  die,  in  the 
palace  of  Ravenna,  wrapped  in  the  cowl  and 
mantle  of  a  Franciscan  friar.  By  his  side  was  his 
friend  Guido  Novello,  the  nephew  of  that  lovely 
Francesca,  whose  passionate  desires  and  cruel 
death  have  become  immortal  in  the  poet's  song.  It 
was  the  day  of  the  Holy  Cross ;  and,  perhaps,  a 
solemn  anthem  was  the  last  sound  that  reached  the 
ears  of  the  dying  man,  when,  between  life  and 
death,  "  he  beheld  eyes  of  light,  that  wandered  like 
Btars."  And  after  death  the  co*vl  and  mantle  were 


430  DANTE. 

removed,  and  he  was  clothed  in  the  garments  of  a 
poet ;  and  his  friend  pronounced  his  eulogy  in  the 
palace. 

Thus  died  the  greatest  of  the  Italian  poets ;  and 
it  may  truly  be  said,  that  the  gloomy  forests  of 
Ravenna  seem  still  to  breathe  forth  the  sighs  of  the 
dying  man ;  so  intimately  associated  with  his  spirit 
are  all  the  places  that  knew  him  upon  earth  ! 

Dante's  writings  are  the  "Vita  Nuova,"  a  ro 
mantic  record  of  his  early  life  and  love,  written  in 
prose,  and  interspersed  with  sonnets  and  canzoni ; 
the  "  Convito,"  a  prose  commentary  upon  three 
canzoni,  to  which  the  reader  is  invited  as  to  a 
festival;  the  "  Canzoniere,"  or  collection  of  sonnets 
and  canzoni ;  the  two  Latin  treatises,  "  De  Mo- 
narchia,"  and  "  De  Vulgari  Eloquentia ; "  and  the 
great  masterpiece  and  labor  of  his  mature  life,  the 
"  Divina  Commedia." 

The  "  Divina  Commedia"  is  not  what  we  under 
stand  by  an  allegorical  poem  in  the  strict  sense  of 
the  word, — in  the  same  sense,  for  instance,  as  the 
"  Faery  Queen."  And  yet  it  is  full  of  allegory ; 
full  of  literal  and  figurative  meanings ;  full  of  sym 
bols  and  things  signified.  Dante  himself  says,  in  a 
letter  which  he  sent  with  the  poem  to  his  friend 
Can  Grande  della  Scala :  "  It  is  to  be  remarked, 
thav.  the  sense  of  this  work  is  not  simple ;  but,  on 
the  contrary,  one  may  say,  manifold.  For  the 
first  sense  is  that  which  it  derives  from  its  lan 
guage  ;  and  another  is  that  which  it  derives  from 
the  things  signified  by  the  language ; — the  one, 


DANTE.  431 

literal;  the  other,  allegorical.  .  .  .  The  subject 
of  the  whole  work,  taken  literally,  is  the  condition 
of  the  soul  after  death.  But  if  you  well  observe 
the  express  words,  you  will  easily  perceive,  that, 
in  an  allegorical  sense,  the  poet  is  treating  of  this 
hell,  in  which,  journeying  onward  like  travellers, 
we  may  deserve  reward  or  punishment."  The 
machinery,  then,  of  the  poem  is  allegorical ;  but  the 
characters  are  real  personages,  in  their  true  forms. 
Among  these  some  masks  and  disguises  are  intro 
duced: — the  Age;  the  Church;  the  Empire  of 
Rome ;  the  Virtues,  shining  as  stars,  &c.  Properly 
speaking,  the  poem  is  a  mixture  of  realities  and 
symbols,  as  best  suits  the  author's  feeling  at  the 
moment.  * 

We  are  to  consider  the  Divine  Poem  as  the 
mirror  of  the  age  in  which  its  author  lived;  or 
rather,  perhaps,  as  a  mirror  of  Italy  in  that  age. 
The  principal  historic  events  and  personages,  the 
character  and  learning  of  the  time,  are  faithfully 
imaged  and  reproduced  therein.  Most  of  the 
events  described  had  just  transpired ;  most  of  the 
persons  were  just  dead ;  the  memory  of  both  was 
still  warm  in  the  minds  of  men.  The  poet  did  not 
merely  imagine,  as  a  possibility;  but  felt,  as  a 
reality.  He  was  wandering  about  homeless,  as  he 
composed ;  almost  borrowing  the  ink  he  wrote 
with.  They  who  had  wronged  him  still  lived  to 
wrong  him  further.  No  wonder,  then,  that  in  his 

*  See,  upon  this  subject,  ROSSETTI,  Spirito  Antipapale  de' 
Classic!  Italiani,  Cap.  V. 


432  DAXTE. 

troubled,  burning  soul  arose  great  thoughts  and 
awful,  like  Farinata,  from  his  burning  sepulchre. 
When  he  approached  a  city's  gates,  he  could  not 
but  be  reminded  that  into  the  gates  of  Florence  he 
could  go  no  more.  When  he  beheld  the  towers  of 
feudal  castles  cresting  the  distant  hills,  he  felt  how 
arrogant  are  the  strong,  how  much  abused  the 
weak.  Every  brook  and  river  reminded  him  of 
the  Arno,  and  the  brooklets  that  descend  from 
Casentino.  Every  voice  he  heard  told  him,  by  its 
strange  accent,  that  he  was  an  exile ;  and  every 
home  he  saw  said  to  liim,  in  its  sympathies  even, 
"  Thou  art  homeless  ! "  All  these  things  found 
expression  in  his  poem ;  and  much  of  the  beautiful 
description  of  landscape,  and  of  the  morning  and 
the  evening,  bears  the  freshness  of  that  impression 
•which  is  made  on  the  mind  of  a  foot-traveller,  who 
sits  under  the  trees  at  noon,  and  leaves  or  enters 
towns  when  the  morning  or  evening  bells  are 
ringing,  and  he  has  only  to  hear  "  how  many  a  tale 
their  music  tells." 

Dante,  in  his  Latin  treatise  u  De  Monarchia," 
says,  that  man  is  a  kind  of  middle  term  between 
the  corruptible  and  the  incorruptible,  and,  being 
thus  twofold  in  his  nature,  is  destined  to  a  twofold 
end ;  "  namely,  to  happiness  in  this  life,  which 
consists  in  the  practice  of  virtue,  and  is  figured 
forth  in  the  Terrestrial  Paradise ;  and  eternal 
beatitude,  which  consists  in  the  fruition  of  the 
divine  presence ;  to  which  we  cannot  arrive  by 
»ny  virtue  of  our  own,  unless  aided  by  divine 


DANTE.  433 

light ;  and  this  is  the  Celestial  Paradise."  *     This 
idea  forms  the  thread  of  the  "  Commedia." 

Midway  in  life  the  poet  finds  himself  lost  in  the 
gloomy  forest  of  worldly  cares,  beset  by  Pride, 
Avarice,  and  Sensual  Pleasure.  Moral  Philosophy, 
embodied  in  the  form  of  Virgil,  leads  him  forth 
through  the  Hell  of  worldly  sin  and  passion  and 
suffering,  through  the  Purgatory  of  repentant  feel 
ings,  to  the  quiet  repose  of  earthly  happiness. 
Farther  than  this  mere  philosophy  cannot  go* 
Here  Divine  Wisdom,  or  Theology,  in  the  form  of 
Beatrice,  receives  the  pilgrim,  and,  ascending  from 
planet  to  planet,  guides  him  through  the  ten 
heavens  of  Paradise. 

Upon  this  slender  golden  thread  hangs  this 
universe  of  a  poem;  in  which  things  visible  and 
invisible  have  their  appointed  place,  and  the 
spheres  and  populous  stars  revolve  harmonious 
about  their  centre. 

•        *  De  Monarch!!,  Cap.  92,  93 


70L.  I. 


THE  DIVINA  COMMEDIA. 

FROM    THE    GERMAN    OF    8CHELLING. 

i 

1850. 

[!N  the  folio-wing  elaborate  specimen  of  literary  criti 
cisra  there  are  many  passages  which  will  be  very  obscure 
not  to  say  unintelligible,  to  those  who  are  not  familial 
with  the  philosophic  phraseology  of  the  Germans.  Tin 
student  of  Dante,  however,  will  find  in  it  many  hints  and 
suggestions  worthy  his  consideration.  It  cannot  be  other 
wise  than  interesting  to  see  two  such  minds  as  those  of 
Schelling  and  Dante  brought  into  contact;  and  to  hear 
what  the  German  philosopher  has  to  say  of  the  Italian 
poet.] 

IN  the  sanctuary  where  Religion  "  is  married  to 
immortal  Verse,"  stands  Dante  as  higlipriest,  and 
consecrates  all  modern  Art  to  its  vocation.  Not 
as  a  solitary  poem,  but  representing  the  whole 
class  of  the  New  Poetry,  and  itself  a  separate  class, 
stands  the  "  Divine  Comedy,"  so  entirely  unique, 
that  any  theory  drawn  from  peculiar  forms  is  quite 
inadequate  to  it; — a  world  by  itself,  it  demands  its 
own  peculiar  theory.  The  predicate  of  Divine 


THE    DIVIKA    COMMEDIA.  435 

was  given  it  by  its  author,  *  because  it  treats  of 
theology  and  things  divine ;  Comedy  he  called  it, 
after  the  simplest  notion  of  this  and  its  opposite 
kind,  on  account  of  its  fearful  beginning  and  its 
happy  ending,  and  because  the  mixed  nature  of 
the  poem,  whose  material  is  now  lofty  and  now 
lowly,  rendered  a  mixed  kind  of  style  necessary. 

One  readily  perceives,  however,  that,  according 
tc  the  common  notion,  it  cannot  be  called  Drama 
tic,  because  it  represents  no  circumscribed  action. 
So  far  as  Dante  himself  may  be  looked  upon  as  the 
hero,  who  serves  only  as  a  thread  for  the  measure 
less  series  of  visions  and  pictures,  and  remains 
rather  passive  than  active,  the  poem  seems  to  ap 
proach  nearer  to  a  Romance;  yet  this  definition 
does  not  completely  exhaust  it.  Nor  can  we  call 
it  Epic,  in  the  usual  acceptation  of  the  word,  since 
there  is  no  regular  sequence  in  the  events  repre 
sented.  To  look  upon  it  as  a  Didactic  poem,  is 
likewise  impossible,  because  it  is  written  with  a  far 
less  restricted  form  and  aim  than  those  of  teaching. 
It  belongs,  therefore,  to  none  of  these  classes  in 
particular,  nor  is  it  merely  a  compound  of  them  ; 
but  an  entirely  unique,  and  as  it  were  organic,  mix 
ture  of  all  their  elements,  not  to  be  reproduced  by 
any  arbitrary  rules  of  art, — an  absolute  individu 
ality,  comparable  with  itself  alone,  and  with  naught 
else. 

The  material  of  the  poem  is,  in  general  terms, 

*  The  title  of  "Divina"  was  not  given  to  the  poem  till  long 
rfter  Dante's  death.    It  first  appears  in  the  edition  of  1516. — Ta. 


43G  THE    DIVINA    COMMKDIA. 

the  express  identity  of  the  poet's  age ; — the  inter- 
penetration  of  the  events  thereof  with  the  ideas  of 
Religion,  Science,  and  Poetry  in  the  loftiest  genius 
of  that  century.  Our  intention  is  not  to  consider 
it  in  its  immediate  reference  to  its  age ;  but  rather 
in  its  universal  application,  and  as  the  archetype  of 
all  modern  Poetry. 

The  necessary  law  of  this  poetry,  down  to  the 
still  indefinitely  distant  point  where  the  great  epic 
of  modern  times,  which  hitherto  has  announced 
itself  only  rhapsodically  and  in  broken  glimpses, 
shall  present  itself  as  a  perfect  whole,  is  this : — that 
the  individual  gives  shape  and  unity  to  that  por 
tion  of  the  world  which  is  revealed  to  him,  and  out 
of  the  materials  of  his  time,  its  history,  and  its 
science,  creates  his  own  mythology.  For  as  the 
ancient  world  is,  in  general,  the  world  of  classes, 
so  the  modern  is  that  of  individuals.  In  the  for 
mer,  the  Universal  is  in  truth  the  Particular,  the 
race  acts  as  an  individual ;  in  the  latter,  the  Indi 
vidual  is  the  point  of  departure,  and  becomes  the 
Universal.  For  this  reason,  in  the  former  all 
things  are  permanent  and  imperishable :  number 
likewise  is  of  no  account,  since  the  Universal  idea 
coincides  with  that  of  the  Individual ; — in  the  laC 
ter  constant  mutation  is  the  fixed  law ;  no  narrow 
circle  limits  its  ends,  but  one  which  through  Indi 
viduality  widens  itself  to  infinitude.  And  since 

Universality  belongs  to  the  essence  of  poetry,  it  is 

a  necessary  condition  that  the  Individual  through 
the  highest  peculiarity  should  again  become  Uni- 


THE    DIVINA    COMMEDIA.  437 

versal,  and  by  his  complete  speciality  become  again 
absolute.  Thus,  through  the  perfect  individuality 
and  uniqueness  of  his  poem,  Dante  is  the  creator 
of  modern  art,  which  without  this  arbitrary  neces 
sity,  and  necessary  arbitrariness,  cannot  be  imag 
ined. 

From  the  very  beginning  of  Greek  Poetry,  we 
see  it  clearly  separated  from  Science  and  Philos 
ophy,  as  in  Homer,  and  this  process  of  separation 
continued  until  the  poets  and  the  philosophers  be 
came  the  antipodes  of  each  other.  They  in  vain, 
by  allegorical  interpretations  of  the  Homeric  poems, 
sought  artificially  to  create  a  harmony  between 
the  two.  In  modern  times  Science  has  preceded 
Poetry  and  Mythology,  which  cannot  be  Mythology 
without  being  universal,  and  drawing  into  its  cir 
cle  all  the  elements  of  the  then  existing  culture, 
Science,  Religion,  and  even  Art,  and  joining  in  a 
perfect  unity  the  material  not  only  of  the  present 
but  of  the  past.  Into  this  struggle  (since  Art  de 
mands  something  definite  and  limited,  while  the 
spirit  of  the  world  rushes  towards  the  unlimited, 
and  with  ceaseless  power  sweeps  down  all  barriers) 
must  the  Individual  enter,  but  with  absolute  free 
dom  seek  to  rescue  permanent  shapes  from  the 
fluctuations  of  time,  and  within  arbitrarily  assumed 
forms  to  give  to  the  structure  of  his  poem,  by  its 
absolute  peculiarity,  internal  necessity  and  exter 
nal  universality. 

This  Dante  has  done.  He  had  before  him,  as 
material,  the  history  of  the  present  as  well  as  of  the 


438  THE   DIVINA    COMMEDIA. 

past.  He  could  not  elaborate  this  into  a  pure 
Epos,  partly  on  account  of  its  nature,  partly  be 
cause,  in  doing  this,  he  would  have  excluded  other 
elements  of  the  culture  of  his  time.  To  its  com 
pleteness  belonged  also  the  astronomy,  the  theol 
ogy,  and  the  philosophy  of  the  time.  To  these  he 
could  not  give  expression  in  a  didactic  poem,  for 
by  so  doing  he  would  again  have  limited  himself. 
Consequently,  in  order  to  make  his  poem  univer 
sal,  he  was  obliged  to  make  it  historical.  An 
invention  entirely  uncontrolled,  and  proceeding 
from  his  own  individuality,  was  necessary  to  unite 
these  materials,  and  form  them  into  an  organic 
whole.  To  represent  the  ideas  of  Philosophy  and 
Theology  in  symbols  was  impossible,  for  there  then 
existed  no  symbolic  Mythology.  He  could  quite 
as  little  make  his  poem  purely  allegorical,  for 
then,  again,  it  could  not  be  historical.  It  was 
necessary,  therefore,  to  make  it  an  entirely  unique 
mixture  of  Allegory  and  History.  In  the  emble 
matic  poetry  of  the  ancients  no  clew  of  this  kind 
was  possible.  The  Individual  only  could  lay  hold 
of  it,  and  only  an  uncontrolled  invention  follow  it. 
The  poem  of  Dante  is  not  allegorical  in  the 
sense  that  its  figures  only  signified  something  else, 
without  having  any  separate  existence  indepen 
dent  of  the  thing  signified.  On  the  other  hand, 
none  of  them  is  independent  of  the  thing  signified 
in  such  a  way  as  to  be  at  once  the  idea  itself  and 
more  than  an  allegory  of  it.  There  is  therefore  in 
his  poem  an  entirely  unique  mean  between  Alle- 


THE    DIVINA    COMMEDIA.  439 

gory  and  symbolic-objective  Form.  There  is  no 
doubt,  and  the  poet  has  himself  elsewhere  declared 
it,  that  Beatrice,  for  example,  is  an  Allegory, 
namely,  of  Theology.  So  her  companions ;  so 
many  other  characters.  But  at  the  same  time 
they  count  for  themselves,  and  appear  on  the 
scene  as  historic  personages,  without  on  that  ac 
count  being  symbols. 

In  this  respect  Dante  is  archetypal,  since  he  has 
proclaimed  what  the  modern  poet  has  to  do,  in 
order  to  embody  into  a  poetic  whole  the  entire 
history  and  culture  of  his  age, — the  only  mytho 
logical  material  which  lies  before  him.  He  must, 
from  absolute  arbitrariness,  join  together  the  alle 
gorical  and  historical :  he  must  be  allegorical  (and 
he  is  so,  too,  against  his  will),  because  he  cannot 
be  symbolical ;  and  he  must  be  historical,  because 
he"  wishes  to  be  poetical.  In  this  respect  his  inven 
tion  is  always  peculiar,  a  world  by  itself,  and  alto 
gether  characteristic.  * 

The  only  German  poem  of  universal  plan  unites  / 
together  in  a  similar  manner  the  outermost  ex 
tremes  in  the  aspirations  of  the  times,  by  a  very 
peculiar  invention  of  a  subordinate  mythology, 
in  the  character  of  Faust :  although,  in  the  Aris- 
tophanic  meaning  of  the  word,  it  may  far  better 
be  called  a  Comedy,  and  in  another  and  more 
poetic  sense  Divine,  than  the  poem  of  Dante. 

The  energy  with  which  the  individual  embodies 
the  singular  mixture  of  the  materials  which  lie  be 
fore  him  in  his  a^e  and  his  life  determines  the 


410  THE    DIVIXA    COMMEDIA. 

measure  in  which  he  possesses  mythological  power. 
Dante's  personages  possess  a  kind  of  eternity  from 
the  position  in  which  he  places  them,  and  which  la 
eternal :  but  not  only  the  actual  which  he  drawg 
from  his  own  time,  as  the  story  of  Ugolino  and  the 
like,  but  also  what  is  pure  invention,  as  the  death 
of  Ulysses  and  his  companions,  has  in  the  connec 
tion  of  his  poem  a  real  mythological  truth. 

It  would  be  of  but  subordinate  interest  to  repre 
sent  by  itself  the  Philosophy,  Physics,  and  Astron 
omy  of  Dante,  since  his  true  peculiarity  lies  only 
in  his  manner  effusing  them  with  his  poetry.  The 
Ptolemaic  system,  which  to  a  certain  degree  is  the 
foundation  of  his  poetic  structure,  has  already  in 
itself  a  mythological  coloring.  If,  however,  his 
philosophy  is  to  be  characterized  in  general  as 
Aristotelian,  we  must  not  understand  by  this  the 
pure  Peripatetic  philosophy,  but  a  peculiar  union 
of  the  same  with  the  ideas  of  the  Platonic  then 
entertained,  as  may  be  proved  by  many  passages 
of  his  poem. 

We  will  not  dwell  upon  the  power  and  solidity 
of  separate  passages,  the  simplicity  and  endless 
naivete  of  separate  picture*,  in  which  he  expresses 
his  philosophical  views,  as  the  well-known  descrip 
tion  of  the  soul  which  comes  from  the  hand  of  God 
as  a  little  girl  "  weeping  and  laughing  in  its  child 
ish  sport,"  a  guileless  soul,  which  knows  nothing, 
save  that,  moved  by  its  joyful  Creator,  "  willingly 
it  turns  to  that  which  gives  it  pleasure;" — we 
epeak  only  of  the  general  symbolic  form  of  the 


THE    DIVINA    COMMEDIA.  441 

whole,  in  whose  absoluteness,  more  than  in  any 
thing  else,  the  universal  value  and  immortality  of 
this  poem  is  recognized. 

If  the  union  of  Philosophy  and  Poetry,  even  in 
their  most  subordinate  synthesis,  is  understood  as 
making  a  didactic  poem,  it  becomes  necessary,  since 
the  poem  must  be  without  any  external  end  and 
aim.  that  the  intention  (of  instructing)  should  lose 
itself  in  it,  and  be  changed  into  an  absoluteness 
(in  eine  Absolutheit  vericandelfy,  so  that  the  poem 
may  seem  to  exist  for  its  own  sake.  And  this  is 
only  conceivable,  when  Science  (considered  as  a 
picture  of  the  universe,  and  in  perfect  harmony 
therewith,  as  the  most  original  and  beautiful  Poetry) 
is  in  itself  already  poetical.  Dante's  poem  is  a 
much  higher  interpenetration  of  Science  and 
Poetry,  and  so  much  the  more  must  its  form,  even 
in  its  freer  self-existence,  be  adapted  to  the  uni 
versal  type  of  the  world's  aspect. 

The  division  of  the  universe  and  the  arrange 
ment  of  the  materials  according  to  the  three  king 
doms  of  Hell,  Purgatory,  and  Paradise,  indepen 
dently  of  the  peculiar  meaning  of  these  ideas  in 
Christian  theology,  are  also  a  general  symbolic 
form,  so  that  one  does  not  see  why  under  the  same 
form  every  remarkable  age  should  not  have  its  own 
Divine  Comedy.  As  in  the  modern  Drama  the 
form  of  five  acts  is  assumed  as  the  usual  one,  be 
cause  every  event  may  be  regarded  in  its  Begin 
ning,  its  Progress,  its  Culmination,  its  De'noument, 
and  its  final  Consummation,  so  tliis  trichotomy,  or 


442  TUB    DIVINA    COMMEDIA. 

threefold  division  of  Dante  in  the  higher  prophetic 
poetry,  which  is  to  be  the  expression  of  a  whole  age, 
is  conceivable  as  a  general  form,  which  in  its  filling 
up  may  be  infinitely  varied,  as  by  the  power  of 
original  invention  it  can  always  be  quickened  into 
new  life.  Not  alone,  however,  as  an  external  form, 
but  as  an  emblematical  expression  of  the  internal 
type  of  all  Science  and  Poetry,  is  that  form  eternal, 
and  capable  of  embracing  in  itself  the  three  great 
objects  of  science  and  culture, — Nature,  History, 
and  Art.  Nature,  as  the  birth  of  all  things,  is  the 
eternal  Night ;  and  as  that  unity  through  which 
these  are  in  themselves,  it  is  the  aphelion  of  the 
universe,  the  point  of  farthest  removal  from  God, 
the  true  centre.  Life  and  History,  whose  nature 
is  gradual  progress,  are  only  a  process  of  clarifica 
tion,  a  transition  to  an  absolute  condition.  -This 
can  nowhere  be  found  save  in  Art,  which  antici 
pates  eternity,  is  the  paradise  of  life,  and  is  truly 
in  the  centre. 

Dante's  poem,  therefore,  viewed  from  all  sides, 
is  not  an  isolated  work  of  a  particular  age,  a  par 
ticular  stage  of  culture ;  but  it  is  archetypal,  by 
the  universal  interest  which  it  unites  with  the  most 
absolute  individuality, — by  its  universality,  in  virtue 
of  which  it  excludes  no  side  of  life  and  culture,— 
and,  finally,  by  its  form,  which  is  not  a  peculiar 
type,  but  the  type  of  the  theory  of  the  universe  ia 
general. 

The  peculiar  internal  arrangement  of  the  poem 
certainly  cannot  possess  this  universal  interest, 


THE   DIVINA    COMMEDIA.  443 

since  it  is  formed  upon  the  ideas  of  the  time,  and 
the  peculiar  views  of  the  poet.  On  the  other  hand, 
as  is  to  be  expected  from  a  work  so  artistic  and  full 
of  purpose,  the  general  inner  type  is  again  ex 
ternally  imaged  forth,  through  the  form,  color, 
Bound,  of  the  three  great  divisions  of  the  poem. 

From  the  extraordinary  nature  of  his  material, 
Dante  needed  for  the  form  of  his  creations  in  de 
tail  some  kind  of  credentials  which  only  the  Science 
of  his  time  could  give,  and  which  for  him  are,  so 
to  speak,  the  Mythology  and  the  general  basis 
which  supports  the  daring  edifice  of  his  inventions. 
But  even  in  the  details  he  remains  true  to  his  de 
sign  of  being  allegorical,  without  ceasing  to  be 
historical  and  poetical.  Hell,  Purgatory,  and  Para 
dise  are,  as  it  were,  only  his  system  of  Theology  in 
its  concrete  and  architectural  development.  The 
proportion,  number,  and  relations  which  he  ob 
serves  in  their  internal  structure  were  prescribed 
by  this  science,  and  herein  he  renounced  inten 
tionally  the  freedom  of  invention,  in  order  to  give, 
by  means  of  form,  necessity  and  limitation  to  his 
poem,  which  in  its  materials  was  unlimited.  The 
universal  sanctity  and  significancy  of  numbers  is 
another  external  form  upon  which  his  poetry  rests. 
So  in  general  the  entire  logical  and  syllogistic  lore 
of  that  age  is  for  him  only  form,  which  must  be 
granted  to  him  in  order  to  attain  to  that  region  in 
which  his  poetry  moves. 

And  yet  in  this  adherence  to  religious  and  phil 
osophical  notions,  as  the  most  universally  interest' 


444  THE    DIVIXA    COMMEDIA. 

ing  thing  which  his  age  offered,  Dante  never  seeks 
an  ordinary  kind  of  poetic  probability;  but  rather 
renounces  all  intention  of  flattering  the  baser 
senses.  His  first  entrance  into  Hell  takes  place,  as 
it  should  take  place,  without  any  unpoetical  attempt 
to  assign  a  motive  for  it  or  to  make  it  intelligible, 
in  a  condition  like  that  of  a  Vision,  without,  how 
ever,  any  intention  of  making  it  appear  such.  Ilia 
being  drawn  up  by  Beatrice's  eyes,  through  which 
the  divine  power  is  communicated  to  him,  he  ex 
presses  in  a  single  line :  what  is  wonderful  in  his 
own  adventures  he  immediately  changes  to  a  like 
ness  of  the  mysteries  of  religion,  and  gives  it 
credibility  by  a  yet  higher  mystery,  as  when  he 
makes  his  entrance  into  the  moon,  which  he  com 
pares  to  that  of  light  into  the  unbroken  surface  of 
water,  an  image  of  God's  incarnation. 

To  show  the  perfection  of  art  and  the  depth  of 
purpose  which  was  carried  even  into  the  minor 
details  of  the  inner  structure  of  the  three  worlds, 
would  be  a  science  in  itself.  This  was  recognized 
shortly  after  the  poet's  death  by  his  nation,  in  their 
appointing  a  distinct  Lectureship  upon  Dante, 
which  was  first  filled  by  Boccaccio. 

But  not  only  do  the  several  incidents  in  each  of 
the  three  parts  of  the  poem  allow  the  universal 
character  of  the  first  form  to  shine  through  them, 
but  the  law  thereof  expresses  itself  yet  more  defi 
nitely  in  the  inner  and  spiritual  rhythm,  by  which 
they  are  contradistinguished  from  each  other.  The 
Inferno,  as  it  is  the  most  fearful  in  its  objects,  is 


THE    DIVINA    COMMEDIA.  445 

likewise  tlie  strongest  in  expression,  the  severest  in 
diction,  and  in  its  very  words  dark  and  awful.  In 
one  portion  of  the  Purgatorio  deep  silence  reigns, 
for  the  lamentations  of  the  lower  world  grow  mute  : 
upon  its  summits,  the  forecourts  of  Heaven,  all 
becomes  Color :  the  Paradiso  is  the  true  music  of 
the  spheres. 

The  variety  and  difference  of  the  punishments 
in  the  Inferno  are  conceived  with  almost  un 
exampled  invention.  Between  the  crime  and  the 
punishment  there  is  never  any  other  than  a  poetic 
relation.  Dante's  spirit  is  not  daunted  by  what  is 
terrible  ;  nay,  he  goes  to  its  extreme  limits.  But 
it  could  be  shown,  in  every  case,  that  he  never 
ceases  to  be  sublime,  and  in  consequence  truly 
beautiful.  For  that  which  men  who  are  not  capable 
of  comprehending  the  whole  have  sometimes  pointed 
out  as  low,  is  not  so  in  their  sense  of  the  term,  but 
it  is  a  necessary  element  of  the  mixed  nature  of  the 
poem,  on  account  of  which  Dante  himself  called 
it  a  Comedy.  The  hatred  of  evil,  the  scorn  of  a 
godlike  spirit,  which  are  expressed  in  Dante's  fear 
ful  composition,  are  not  the  inheritance  of  common 
souls.  It  is  indeed  very  doubtful  still,  though  quite 
generally  believed,  whether  his  banishment  from 
Florence,  after  he  had  previously  dedicated  his 
poetry  to  Love,  first  spurred  on  his  spirit,  naturally 
inclined  to  whatever  was  earnest  and  extraordinary, 
to  the  highest  invention,  in  which  he  breathed  forth 
the  whole  of  his  life,  of  the  destiny  of  his  heart 
%ud  his  country,  together  with  his  indignation 


446  THE   DIVINA   COMMEDIA. 

thereat  But  the  vengeance  which  he  takes  in  the 
Inferno,  he  takes  in  the  name  of  the  Day  of  Judg 
ment,  as  the  elected  Judge  with  prophetic  power, 
not  from  personal  hate,  but  with  a  pious  soul 
roused  by  the  abominations  of  the  times,  and  a 
love  of  his  native  land  long  dead  in  others,  as  he 
has  himself  represented  in  a  passage  in  the  Para- 
diso,  where  he  says  : — 

"If  e'er  it  happen  that  the  Poem  sacred, 
To  which  both  Earth  and  Heaven  have  lent  their  hand, 
Till  it  bath  made  me  meagre  many  a  year, 

Conquer  the  cruelty  that  shuts  me  out 
Of  the  fair  sheepfold,  where  a  lamb  I  slumbered, 
An  3nemy  to  the  wolves  that  war  upon  it, 

With  other  voice  forthwith,  with  other  fleece, 
The  poet  shall  return,  and  at  the  font 
Baptismal  shall  he  take  the  crown  of  laurel." 

He  tempera  the  horror  of  the  torments  of  the 
damned  by  his  own  feeling  for  them,  which  at  the 
end  of  so  much  suffering  so  overwhelms  him  that 
he  is  ready  to  weep,  and  Virgil  says  to  him, 
"  Wherefore  then  art  thou  troubled  ?  " 

It  has  already  been  remarked,  that  the  greater 
part  of  the  punishments  of  the  Inferno  are  sym 
bolical  of  the  crimes  for  which  they  are  inflicted, 
but  many  of  them  are  so  in  a  far  more  general  re- 
latiDn.  Of  this  kind  is,  in  particular,  the  repre 
sentation  of  a  metamorphosis,  in  which  two  natures 
are  mutually  interchanged,  and  their  substance 
transmuted.  No  metamorphosis  of  Antiquity  can 
compare  with  this  for  invention,  and  if  a  naturalist 


THE   DIVINA   COMMEDIA.  447 

or  a  didactic  poet  were  able  to  sketch  with  such 
power  emblems  of  the  eternal  metamorphoses  of 
nature,  he  might  congratulate  himself  upon  it. 

As  we  have  already  remarked,  the  Inferno  ia 
not  only  distinguished  from  the  other  parts  by  the 
external  form  of  its  representation,  but  also  by  the 
circumstance  that  it  is  peculiarly  the  realm  of 
forms,  and  consequently  the  plastic  part  of  the 
poem.  The  Purgatorio  must  be  recognized  as  the 
picturesque  part.  Not  only  are  the  penances  here 
imposed  upon  sinners  at  times  pictorially  treated, 
even  to  brightness  of  coloring,  but  the  journey  up 
the  holy  mountain  of  Purgatory  presents  in  detail 
a  rapid  succession  of  shifting  landscapes,  scenes, 
and  manifold  play  of  light ;  until  upon  its  outer 
most  boundary,  when  the  poet  has  reached  the 
waters  of  Lethe,  the  highest  pomp  of  painting  and 
color  displays  itself,  in  the  picturing  of  the  divine 
primeval  forest  of  this  region,  of  the  celestial  clear 
ness  of  the  water  overcast  with  its  eternal  shadow, 
of  the  maiden  whom  he  meets  upon  its  banks,  and 
the  descent  of  Beatrice  in  a  cloud  of  flowers, 
beneath  a  white  veil,  crowned  with  olive,  wrapped 
in  a  green  mantle,  and  "  vested  in  colors  of  the 
living  flame." 

The  poet  has  urged  his  way  to  light  thi  ough  the 
very  heart  of  the  earth:  in  the  darkness  of  the 
lower  world  forms  alone  could  be  distinguished  :  in 
Purgatory  light  is  kindled,  but  still  in  connectior 
with  earthly  matter,  and  becomes  color.  In  Para 
dise  there  remains  nothing  but  the  pure  music  of 


448  THE    DIVJXA    COMMEDIA. 

the  light;  reflection  ceases,  and  the  Poet  rises 
gradually  to  behold  the  colorless  pure  essence  of 
Deity  itself. 

The  astronomical  system  which  the  age  of  the 
poet  invested  with  a  mythological  value,  the  nature 
of  the  stars  and  of  the  measure  of  their  motion,  are 
the  ground  upon  which  his  inventions,  in  this  part 
of  the  poem,  rest.  And  if  he  in  this  sphere  of  the 
unconditioned  still  suffers  degrees  and  differences 
to  exist,  he  again  removes  them  by  the  glorious 
word  which  he  puts  into  the  mouth  of  one  of  the 
sister-souls  whom  he  meets  in  the  moon,  that 
"  every  Where  in  heaven  is  Paradise." 

The  plan  of  the  poem  renders  it  natural  that,  on 
the  very  ascent  through  Paradise,  the  loftiest 
speculations  of  theology  should  be  discussed.  His 
deep  reverence  for  this  science  is  symbolized  by 
his  love  of  Beatrice.  In  proportion  as  the  field  of 
vision  enlarges  itself  into  the  purely  Universal,  it 
is  necessary  that  Poetry  should  become  Music, 
form  vanish,  and  that,  in  this  point  of  view,  the 
Inferno  should  appear  the  most  poetic  part  of  the 
work.  But  in  this  work  it  is  absolutely  impossible 
to  take  things  separately ;  and  the  peculiar  excel 
lence  of  each  separate  part  is  authenticated  and 
recognized  only  through  its  harmony  with  the 
whole.  If  the  relation  of  the  three  parts  to  the 
whole  is  perceived,  we  shall  necessarily  recognize 
the  Paradise  as  the  purely  musical  and  lyrical  por 
tion,  even  in  the  design  of  the  poet,  who  expresses 


THE   DIVINA    COMMEDIA.  449 

this  in  the  external  form,  by  the  frequent  use  of 
the  Latin  words  of  Church  hymns. 

The  marvellous  grandeur  of  the  poem,  which 
gleams  forth  in  the  mingling  of  all  the  elements  of 
poetry  and  art,  reaches  in  this  way  a  perfect  mani 
festation.  This  divine  work  is  not  plastic,  not 
picturesque,  not  musical,  but  all  of  these  at  once 
and  in  accordant  harmony.'  It  is  not  dramatic, 
not  epic,  not  lyric,  but  a  peculiar,  unique,  and  un 
exampled  mingling  of  all  these. 

I  think  I  have  shown,  at  the  same  time,  that  it  is 
prophetic,  and  typical  of  all  the  modern  Poetry. 
It  embraces  all  its  characteristics,  and  springs  out 
of  the  intricately  mingled  materials  of  the  same,  as 
the  first  growth,  stretching  itself  above  the  earth 
and  toward  the  heavens, — the  first  fruit  of  trans 
figuration.  Those  who  would  become  acquainted 
with  the  poetry  of  modern  times,  not  superficially, 
but  at  its  fountain-head,  may  train  themselves  by 
this  great  and  mighty  spirit,  in  order  to  know  by 
what  means  the  whole  of  the  modern  time  may  be 
embraced  in  its  entireness,  and  that  it  is  not  held 
together  by  a  loosely  woven  band.  They  who 
have  no  vocation  for  this  can  apply  to  themselves 
the  words  at  the  beginning  of  the  first  part : 

"  Lasciate  ogni  speranza  voi  ch'  intrate." 
VOL.  I.  29 


TABLE-TALK. 

IF  you  borrow  my  books,  do  not  mark  them 
for  I  shall  not  be  able  to  distinguish  your  marks 
from  my  own,  and  the  pages  will  become  like  the 
doors  in  Bagdad  marked  by  Morgiana's  chalk. 


DON  QUIXOTE  thought  he  could  have  made 
beautiful  bird-cages  and  tooth-picks  if  his  brain 
had  not  been  so  full  of  ideas  of  chivalry.  Most 
people  would  succeed  in  small  things,  if  they  were 
not  troubled  with  great  ambitions. 


A  TORN  jacket  is  soon  mended ;  but  hard  words 
bruise  the  heart  of  a  child. 


AUTIIOKS,  in  their  Prefaces,  generally  speak  in 
a  conciliatory,  deprecating  tone  of  the  critics,  whom 
they  hate  and  fear ;  as  of  old  the  Greeks  spake  of 
the  Furies  as  the  Eumenides,  the  Benign  God 
desses. 


TABLE-TALK.  45 1 

DOUBTLESS  criticism  was  originally  benignant, 
pointing  out  the  beauties  of  a  work,  rather  than 
its  defects.  The  passions  of  men  have  made  it 
malignant,  as  the  bad  heart  of  Procrustes  turned 
the  bed,  the  symbol  of  repose,  into  an  instrument 
of  torture. 


POPULARITY  is  only,  in  legal  phrase,  the 
Btantaneous  seisin"  of  fame. 


THE  Mormons  make  the  marriage  ring,  like  the 
ring  of  Saturn,  fluid,  not  solid,  and  keep  it  in  its 
place  by  numerous  satellites. 


IN  the  mouths  of  many  men  soft  words  are  like 
roses  that  soldiers  put  into  the  muzzles  of  their 
muskets  on  holidays. 


WE  often  excuse  our  own  want  of  philanthropy 
by  giving  the  name  of  fanaticism  to  the  more 
ardent  zeal  of  others. 


EVERY  great  poem  is  in  itself  limited  by  neces 
sity, — but  in  its  suggestions  unlimited  and  infinite. 


452  TABLE-TALK. 

^  IF  we  could  read  the  secret  history  of  our  ene* 
mies,  we  should  fiud  in  each  man's  life  sorrow  and 
Auffering  enough  to  disarm  all  hostility. 


As  turning  the  logs  will  make  a  dull  fire  burn, 
so  change  of  studies  a  dull  brain. 


Laws  of  Nature  are  just,  but  terrible. 
There  is  no  weak  mercy  in  them.  Cause  and 
consequence  are  inseparable  and  inevitable.  The 
elements  have  no  forbearance.  The  fire  burns, 
the  water  drowns,  the  air  consumes,  the  earth 
buries.  And  perhaps  it  would  be  well  for  our  race 
if  the  punishment  of  crimes  against  the  Laws  of 
Man  were  as  inevitable  as  the  punishment  of  crimes 
against  the  Laws  of  Nature, — were  Man  as  un 
erring  in  his  judgments  as  Nature. 

ROUND  about  what  is,  lies  a  whole  mysterious 
world  of  what  might  be, — a  psychological  romance 
of  possibilities  and  things  that  do  not  happen.  By 
going  out  a  few  minutes  sooner  or  later,  by  stop 
ping  to  speak  with  a  friend  at  a  corner,  by  meeting 
this  man  or  that,  or  by  turning  down  this  street 
instead  of  the  other,  we  may  let  slip  some  great 
occasion  of  good  or  avoid  some  impending  evil,  by 
which  the  whole  current  of  ou*  lives  would  have 
been  changed.  There  is  no  possible  solution  to 
the  dark  enigma  but  the  one  word,  "  Providence." 


TABLE-TALK.  453 

THE  Helic-on  of  too  many  poets  is  not  a  lull 
crowned  with  sunshine  and  visited  by  the  Muses 
and  the  Graces,  but  an  old  mouldering  house,  full 
of  gloom  and  haunted  by  ghosts. 

"  LET  us  build  such  a  church,  that  those  who 
come  after  us  shall  take  us  for  madmen,"  said  the 
old  canon  of  Seville,  when  the  great  cathedral  was 
planned.  Perhaps  through  every  mind  passes  some 
such  thought,  when  it  first  entertains  the  design  of 
some  great  and  seemingly  impossible  action,  the 
end  of  which  it  dimly  foresees.  This  divine  mad 
ness  enters  more  or  less  into  all  our  noblest  under 
takings. 

I  FEEL  a  kind  of  reverence  for  the  first  books 
of  young  authors.  There  is  so  much  aspiration  in 
them,  so  much  audacious  hope  and  trembling  fear, 
so  much  of  the  heart's  history,  that  all  errors  and 
short-comings  are  for  awhile  lost  sight  of  in  the 
amiable  self-assertion  of  youth. 

AUTHORS  have  a  greater  right  than  any  copy 
right,  though  it  is  generally  unacknowledged  or 
disregarded.  They  have  a  right  to  the  reader's 
civility.  There  are  favorable  hours  for  reading  a 
book,  as  for  writing  it,  and  to  these  the  author  has 
a  claim.  Yet  many  people  think,  that  when  they 
buy  a  book,  they  buy  with  it  the  right  to  abuie  the 
author. 


4  TABLE-TALK. 

A  THOUGHT  often  makes  us  hotter  than  a  fire. 


BLACK  seals  upon  letters,  like  the  black  sails  of 
the  Greeks,  are  signs  of  bad  tidings  and  ill  success. 


LOVE  makes  its  record  in  deeper  colors  as  we 
grow  out  of  childhood  into  manhood ;  as  the  Em 
perors  signed  their  names  in  green  ink  when  under 
age,  but  when  of  age,  in  purple. 


SOME  critics  are  like  chimney-sweepers ;  they 
put  out  the  fire  below,  and  frighten  the  swallows 
from  their  nests  above ;  they  scrape  a  long  time  in 
the  chimney,  cover  themselves  with  soot,  and  bring 
nothing  away  but  a  bag  of  cinders,  and  then  sing 
from  the  top  of  the  house  as  if  they  had  built  it. 


WHEN  we  reflect  that  all  the  aspects  of  Nature, 
all  the  emotions  of  the  soul,  and  all  the  events  of 
life  have  been  the  subjects  of  poetry  for  hundreds 
and  thousands  of  years,  we  can  hardly  wonder  that 
there  should  be  so  many  resemblances  and  coinci 
dences  of  expression  among  poets,  but  rather  that 
they  are  not  more  numerous  and  more  striking. 


TABLE-TALK.  455 

THE  first  pressure  of  sorrow  crushes  out  from 
our  hearts  the  best  wine;  afterwards  the  constant 
weight  of  it  brings  forth  bitterness— the  taste  and 
stain  from  the  lees  of  the  vat. 

THE  tragic  element  in  poetry  is  like  Saturn  in 
alchemy,— the  Malevolent,  the  Destroyer  of  Na 
ture  ;_but  without  it  no  true  Aurum  Potabile,  or 
Elixir  of  Life,  can  be  made. 


END   OF    VOL.  I. 


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